#lockdown area list

[aronaut]

Warmth

Pairing: Sebastian Solace x gn!reader Summary: You're a former researcher that was working before the blacksite lockdown. Forgotten and abandoned, you have no other choice but to work with a certain shopkeeper. Needless to say, you have your differences. Warnings: Explicit mentions of blo/od and inj/ury in the beginning. Not beta read Word count: 4,191 (This is a drabble I plan to include in a long list of loosely connected ideas. Consider it the middle of an enemies to qp partners plot :] )

...The low, ominous groan and creak of metal is enough to put anyone on edge, you think, as you traverse the seemingly endless halls.

Rifling through the cabinets and drawers, scrounging up scraps left behind by hasty thieves, the unsettling ocean ambience is all you have for company. You wonder, just when did your life derail so horrifically, when the sight of a crumpled body on the ground fills you with elation. The heavy, steel doors slide open with little fanfare. Beyond the mangled corpse, your eyes immediately set on a black light laying just a few feet away. Stepping over the expendable, you collect the item. There is little battery left in the light you note, before stashing it in the worn messenger bag slung over your shoulder.

With a heavy sigh, you eyes scan below. Scarlet scatters across the floor in a chaotic spray, drawing your eyes towards the deep crimson pool steadily crawling towards the toe of your shoe. In the center of it all, lays the head of a late expendable, expression locked in a display of permanent shock. From below their eye, a coat of flaky, dry red webs down from their chin to all the way down their shoulder.

The collar of the expendable’s wet suit is torn completely; black shreds of neoprene fray out from below the sternum. It's hard to tell the rubber from the darkened crimson spilling out from the brutal tear in the prisoners neck.

Z-90– the Wall Dweller, you determine. Recent too, if the wet shine on expendable's neck is anything to go off of. The considerably uneaten state of the body leads you to believe it might still be in the area, biding it's time until it can claim the expendable's companions as well.

Or, well, possibly even you…

With that thought in your mind, you crouch down, your hands roaming over surface of the expendable’s clothes for any other possible hidden goods. Sparing glances every so often behind you, straining your ears all the while, you’re cautious during your search.

Any research the expendable might have had is completely useless now, waterlogged with sticky blood and pasted to the body. Attempting to reach into the pockets only rewards you with a sharp jab in your palm, the tips of your fingers cold and wet with spilled vial fluids.

Withdrawing from the body, you finally stand back up to full height. The sudden rush to your head is enough to make you sway, your stomach starting to pinch from the overwhelming, metallic stench permeating the room. With a shaky exhale, you urge yourself forward.

The persistent stinging in your eyes doesn’t do any favors for you as you try and navigate the dimly lit halls of the facility, an incredibly sore ache pulsating in your feet with every step. You are… so tired.

A distant roar of an entity sounds suddenly, reverberating across multiple rooms and rocking the facility. The floor rumbles faintly below your feet, and you can almost barely make out the disorderly sound of blinking lights. Bracing yourself against a wall, you wait out the tremors.

Though exhaustion tugs at you, you acknowledge that you cannot rest here. The dark corners of the room whisper dangerous promises, and as you traverse the rooms you can’t shake off the ever persistent feeling of being watched.

Any human in this place is simply prey, and as you tuck your hands into the pockets of your tattered, beaten white coat, your mind rings out with a grim thought; if every human here is prey, you are high game.

Approaching the next door, the screen doesn’t label it with a number but instead a red line. Taking the keycard from your lanyard, you unlock the door, and step inside. Instead of being met with lockers and scattered drawers, you find yourself in a familiar office. The small room is crowded with desks, computers that have long since powered off, and fake potted plants that fill you with a bittersweet sense of longing. Tucked under the desks, the rusted office chair beckon you to rest, but you push the thought out.

There is no doubt in your mind that he is getting aggravated over the fact that you’ve taken this long already.

Behind the desks there is another door, bracketed by two item lockers long since rummaged through. It’s marked by another red line, but you already know where it leads.

The door opens with an exhale, the frigid air greeting you as you walk on through. Unlike the rooms before, this room is brightly lit, the florescent lights buzzing loudly. Your eyes burn momentarily from the sudden change, taking a moment to adjust. The hall is short this time, and in your view you see another door marked ‘50.’

Your bag is disappointingly light on your shoulders, only holding a gummy flashlight, a few batteries, and the black light you just found. You’re not looking forward to the condescending comments that awaits you behind that door.

Resigning to your fate with a heavy sigh, you begin to trudge forward, but stop short suddenly when you hear what sounds like a loud flash, followed by a furious shout and the rush of footsteps. You only have a split second to react, hastily throwing yourself into a locker, the clang of the metal door muted by the hissing of an opening door.

Laughter rings out in the room, accompanied by a multitude of heavy footfalls. The light peaking through the vent of the locker momentarily obscures as you count three expendables pass by, completely unaware of your presence. They are loud and boisterous, a harsh rhythmic squeak of their boots resounding as they run through the hall, the dull thuds of drawers being pulled out to their full extent in a fruitless endeavor to find more loot. They don’t stay long, and soon enough you hear the hydraulics of the door once more and the footsteps dissipate.

You wait a minute before exiting the locker, hurriedly making your way to the fiftieth door. There is a low, agitated hiss drawing out low from the ground, echoing through the tunnel next to your calf. Crouching down, you crawl on into the vent, your elbows clanging against the thin metal.

Emerging on the other side, you find yourself once more in the confinement of Sebastian’s shop. It’s possibly the smallest room in the facility, the walls looming over you in a claustrophobic fashion. Or, perhaps, it’s just overcrowded with stacked crates strewn about, the floor littered with various gadgets inoperable by you, and piles of paper files scattered across the floor. Your eyesight leads to probably the most useless thing in the room, roaming over the giant tail fin flicking against the wall and up the elongated tail it was attached to.

Sebastian is rubbing furiously at his eyes, lure blinking not dissimilarly to the way the room lights do when in the presence of Z-283. He’s grumbling low beneath his breath, mumbling incoherently between rushed clicks and growls.

When he’s done, he acknowledges your entrance with very little care,

“About time. Stock’s so low, I’ve had to sell half-charged flashlights to the last gaggle of idiots,” his arms drop, and he glares to you. “What the hell took you so long?”

The messenger bag drops from your shoulder with little care, the metal of the flashlights clinging with the floor through the thin material. You fix him with a similar expression to his, squinting up at him.

“Trying not to get caught, asshole. If you want shit sooner get it yourself next time.”

He chuckles sardonically at you.

“Please, I’ve got better things to do,” he responds. “You keep up your half of the deal, and I keep up mine.”

You roll your eyes pointedly, breaking away from the staring match when the brightness of his lure starts to cause dark spots to swim in your vision. Crouching down, you begin to rifle through the bag. He looks unimpressed at the pitiful amount of batteries you set beside yourself, but you do notice the room getting ever so slightly brighter when you pull out the black light.

“Just keep being a good little errand boy, and your efforts won’t go unpunished,” he purrs. You clench your teeth, face warming in anger.

“Oh yes, your part. Totally. I go out, digging around for junk, risking my neck to monsters and delinquent prisoners, while you get to sit in here and play retail worker,” you ramble, frustrated, rolling the gummy flashlight over to his general direction with a not too gentle shove. “Fairest trade in the world.”

Your heartbeat picks up ever so slightly as you feel a shadow cast over you, the bulb of Sebastian’s lure hanging overhead as he leans down towards you, slow. You urge yourself to keep his gaze and stay there as his smile stretches into a sharp grin, light glinting off the razor sharp fangs. His hand stretches towards you, and your shoulders jolt in a half-flinch as they reach towards your neck. You don’t look down from his eyes as his claws pull at your lanyard, the thin fabric brushing against the nape of your neck. Your eyebrows furrow as he pinches the card between his thumb and index, his claw sweeping over it’s laminated surface.

“Would you like to switch roles, ���doctor?’”

You reach up, and promptly slap his hand away.

Instead of retaliating, Sebastian merely laughs at you.

“I didn’t think so,” he drawls, before slowly ascending back to full height, away from you.

The bag, now empty, sits lightly on your shoulder as you pull it over your head. It’s weight is nearly nonexistent. You approach one of the stacked storage containers and with a tired groan plop down, leaning back and stretching your legs out in front of you.

It’s instantaneous relief, you note, your joints popping in rapid succession of one another as you stretch your arms up, crossed at the wrists. Your shoulders are practically buzzing, no doubt having been pinched at some point during your venture in the facility. Your knees creak and ache from crawling through vents and desks, your legs stiff and feet beyond sore. After your stretch, you slump down in your seat with a sigh. Finally, you get to relax.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Ugh.

“Resting, Sebastian.” You respond dryly. “I’m freaking tired, okay? Leave me be.”

Sebastian simply scoffs. You don’t acknowledge him as your eyes draw shut.

“Go somewhere else for that, I have a business to run.”

“And where do you suggest I go? Where is there that doesn’t have a wall dweller lurking or some other hellish atrocity waiting to get at me?” You argue, opening your eyes to challenge him with a glare.

“That isn’t my problem,” he leans down slightly, arms crossed and third arm tucked in awkwardly. “Leave before someone comes in.”

You mirror his pose, crossing your arms and tilting your chin up at him.

“Get out.”

You shuffle in place, legs crossing. Sebastian scowls, growling low in his throat. His arm shoots out, pointing to the vent and shouting.

“Get OUT!”

Your shoulders jump, but you’re stubborn. Drawing your arms around yourself tightly, you shout back.

“Screw you, man! There isn’t anyone coming!”

Sebastian hisses, the only warning you get before he darts down toward you, your arms pushed into your chest as he holds you in a tight grip, claws pinching your skin underneath the thin fabric of your coat.

He is directly in your face, eyes glowering at you as he spits,

“You absolute, goddamn MORON. If you do not LEAVE-”

He cuts himself off suddenly, and in your peripherals you catch the way the fins on the side of his head seem to twitch bizarrely. Soon you hear the pang of metal resounding off the walls of the vent and echoing into the room. With a quick, uttered curse, Sebastian quickly draws back, but he doesn’t let you go, instead pulling you up and with him.

Your arms sting in his hold, your face twisted in a grimace as suddenly your feet are no longer touching the ground. The weight of your body hangs as he effortlessly lifts you up.

“What the hell???” you wheeze. “Let me go!”

A cold hand slaps over your mouth harshly, clasping your face nearly entirely as Sebastian growls.

“Shut the hell Up!”

You get little warning as Sebastian all but stuffs you behind him, crowded by his tail. You try and leverage yourself with his tail, pushing up with your arms as your chest pressing uncomfortably against him. His tail coils and folds in response, pushing over your chest and weighing heavily till you fall back to the floor. The air punched out of your lungs, and you let out a strangled gasp. Panic seized you as you wriggled beneath him, writhing in place to try and breathe. Noticing your struggle, Sebastian lifts his tail ever so slightly, no longer crushing you. You jumped at the opportunity, attempting to sit up before Sebastian’s third arm came down, hand tangling into your hair and shoving you back down.

“Stay down,” he says, low, with a hint of a threat tracing the edges of his voice.

The weight of his hand on your head disappears, and you watch from behind him as his attitude immediately shifts from disgruntled to a calculated calm.

“Welcome, welcome!” he greets, near automatic and practically off a script. You cannot see who he is talking to from your position, but based off the sound of shuffling and whispers, you assume another group has just entered. “Don’t be afraid, I’m not gonna hurt you. Despite what you have seen, heard and/or been told, my name is Sebastian.”

He goes on with his typical spew, and you surrender to the solid weight laying over you. It’s a bit awkward for Sebastian, you realize, as he attempts to move along with his usual transactions now that the upper part of his tail is occupied keeping you hidden. You feel almost smug about it, counting it off as a win in the mentally constructed chart in your mind that keeps loose tabs on the constantly tipping scale between you and Sebastian. It’s not like you want to be seen by the expendables, as it risks the possibility of them reporting back to Urbanshade that one of their esteemed researchers were still alive down here and working against them with the active saboteur. Though, given how long you and Sebastian have spent down here, you highly doubt that is likely to happen anytime soon. The expendable project was a long going mission that has yet to bare any fruit.

As Sebastian drawls on, you can feel his voice reverberating through his tail. As much as you hate to admit it, the rumbling was soothing. The weight of him was less of a burden than it was before, instead it became rather pleasant in grounding you, not unlike a weighted blanket… and a cooled one, at that.

The transaction seemed to be dragging on longer than usual, or maybe that was just you. The events of the day quickly starting to catch up with you, slowing your perception of time as you stared up hazily at the ceiling, with Sebastian’s elbow and back occasionally coming into view. Pressing against the wall, you could feel the way the facility subtly rocked in the waters. Holding your ear to the ground, you could almost hear the ocean, the cold metal soothing against your flushed face.

You could barely make out the voices of the prisoners, and what you could you pieced together that they must be attempting to negotiate. Puffing under your breathe, you smiled, bidding them luck with that endeavor as your eyes drew shut.

When your eyes opened once more, the room was dark. You could no longer hear the prisoners, or even Sebastian for that matter. Lifting your head, you realized also that the weight over you seemed to have disappeared. Sebastian was no longer laying over you.

You couldn’t make out what was in front of you, but you still attempted to look around. Your thoughts were slow and disorientated, but slowly you discerned that you must have fallen asleep. How you managed in such an inconvenient expression, next to Sebastian of all things, you couldn’t fathom. You suppose you were more exhausted than you originally thought.

He must’ve moved you, you think. You could imagine the sneer he must’ve made at realizing you had fallen asleep. Where did he put you, exactly? You jostled awake fully at the thought that perhaps he threw you out in the cold, or simply dumped you in the nearest, darkest room to be preyed on by the experiments.

At this thought, you rushed to push yourself up with your hands, having awoken on your stomach. The floor was… odd in texture. It was rougher, not the smooth, biting cold metal that you were accustomed to. It was, also, ever so slightly warm. As you pushed against it, you noticed that while it was solid it also had a little give to it. Your mind reeled for answers, trying to piece together just exactly where or what you were laying on, when all of the sudden you realized you were moving. Or, more like, the ground was moving.

Your breath quickened as you slid ever so slightly down, and it registered finally that your legs weren’t supported by anything, instead hanging over an edge. Your thighs held together as your arms scrambled to hold on to whatever it was you were on, leaning forward with your face pressed up against something cool.

You could smell an an odd, distinct combination of what you could only describe as leather and fish. Cold air gently brushed down your forehead as you heard someone sigh.

Adjusting to the darkness, you could finally make out what was in front of you– or below you, rather.

Below you was a chest belonging only to Sebastian.

Clad in a white dress shirt and draped in a rough leather jacket, his chest rose steadily under you, raising you in tandem. Looking to his face, all three of his eyes were closed and you couldn’t make out his lure in the darkness. His expression was… peaceful. Relaxed. Despite this, you could see the dark crevices in his forehead and eyes, groves crafted and paved by long-term stress that he refused to let on existed. He was completely unguarded and vulnerable, and considering your position you concluded that he had willingly put himself there.

But why?

You couldn’t comprehend it. Maybe it was a mistake? You had never seen him asleep before… Given all of the traits he was spliced with, you wondered how long he could really go without sleep? Maybe he slept when you were gone? That wouldn’t make sense. He’s a research-fiend by nature, he’d never let a potential customer pass him by.

However, looking more closely, you took in his features. Unlike the rest of his body, his face was smoother; More akin to a human. Between his eyes and on the bridge of his nose, there was a very faint line– barely noticeable even in the light– a paler blue than the surrounding skin. A scar he had when he first came into the facility as a convict. As a human…

You doubt even Sebastian could reject the very notion of sleep. Beneath it all– the razor sharp teeth, the blue scales, and thin web veils on his ears and clawed fingers, you never stopped believing that he was human. You doubt he did, either.

It still didn’t make sense for you to be here, but that didn’t matter, because there was the definite possibility of him screaming at you when he woke up and saw you there in despite of his protests.

You gently tried to creep down, stretching your leg and trying to feel the ground with your toe. You stretched and stretched, flexing your foot before realizing that even at this angle you couldn’t feel the floor. You were up too damn high. Looking down, you could hardly make out the messy floor.

In the midst of your struggling, you felt a rumble pass through you from Sebastian’s chest. His hands, which you hadn’t at first noticed were resting on your hips, slowly caressed over your back before stopping at your shoulders. You laid there, frozen, peaking cautiously up at Sebastian to see he was, thankfully, still asleep.

Your situation got that much more difficult, you realized, as his arms laid heavy over your back and prevented you from moving any further without disturbing the serpent, likely into waking.

Huffing a sigh, you relented.

You still couldn’t see very well in the darkness, and you would no doubt sprain something trying to dismount Sebastian. He’s so cranky awake, you don’t want to imagine what he’d be like shorted a few hours of beauty sleep.

And as much as you loathed to admit it, the position wasn’t… uncomfortable. You felt warm, but not stuffy despite the room. Sebastian was like a pillow with two cold sides, and you discovered that as you sunk back down into him, that his skin seemed to absorb your heat.

You shut your eyes.

There was no point in struggling to leave, or worrying about Sebastian’s reaction right now. Bottom line is, you could go for a couple more minutes of rest. Chances are Sebastian would tell you to hop right back to work first opportunity he got, so you might as well take advantage of the situation.

Your breathing slowed, and as you relaxed you could just barely make out a very soft rumbling crackle coming from Sebastian’s chest, reminiscent of a cat’s purr. His fingers absently curled over your shoulders, the weight of them strong and comforting. You could get used to this, you thought, and didn’t bother to fight against the absurd belief as your thoughts slowed down, sleep creeping in.

A shrill scream roars outside, and the body beneath you jolts violently, jostling you in the process. You hear lights flicker discordantly, before hushing entirely.

You don’t dare to open your eyes as you feel Sebastian move under you, hearing him exhale loudly. From behind the lids of your eyes, you notice the room get slightly brighter. Sebastian is awake.

You brace yourself to be grabbed, or even thrown, as his claws curl that much tighter over your shoulders. But that doesn’t happen.

His hands go lax, and you feel him sink back down, his third arm coming to rest over your lower back. The upper arms gently soothe down your back before brushing back up. Your brows furrow in confusion when a hand rests on your head, combing through your hair.

Warm breath ghosts over you as he leans down with a sigh, arms pulling you further up his body as his chin sets down over your head.

You dare to peek your eyes open, met with the light blue hue of Sebastian’s neck, gaze tracing over the smooth transition between human skin and scales. You feel Sebastian’s clawed hand leave your scalp, once more joining it’s counterpart in soothing up and down your back, the third hand picking at the frayed edges of your shirt.

You can see the bob of Sebastian’s throat as he swallows, coughing lightly in an attempt to clear his throat. His nose presses ever so slightly further into your hair, and you have to suppress the sudden need to jump when the third hand traces up your back, under your shirt.

Your hands brace against him, ready to launch yourself upward and ask just what the hell he is doing, before acknowledging that his hand doesn’t go any further than that. You decide to wait it out, see what he does. Maybe you can catch him doing something embarrassing, and use it as leverage in your next argument. Another point to your metaphorical score.

The other arms continue to stroke over your back, albeit more slowly, as his third hand continues to trail up your spine, leaving a path of goose bumps. The hair of your back raises at the temperature change. His hand is freaking cold. Colder than the rest of his body. Why is that?

As this continues, you feel him slump ever so slightly, all three of his hands slowing to a stop. His chest evens out once more, and you realize, he is asleep.

The hand under your shirt has become significantly warmer, and that is when you realize; Sebastian is cold blooded.

Well, you didn’t just realize, you knew this from the start. It explained his bizarre actions though, and as you took in your position you pieced together you were no different than a weighted blanket you accused his tail of being not long ago. A heated rock for his comfort. Like a snake or lizard basking in a lamplight, you were his source of heat.

Your mouth twitched into a smile. You were totally going to hold this over his head.

[muddyorbsblr]

bad feeling

See my full list of works here!

Summary: Loki's entrance into the Avengers Compound depends on your approval

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 4.3k

Warning/s: minor character that's teeming with douchebag energy and doesn't age check before sliding into the DMs; language (nope still not sorry, Rogers); my rusty af writing (it's been months and honestly this might be cringe but if it is don't tell me i'm sensitive--) [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: metahuman Reader in denial; instalove trope alert (i didn't think i'd ever be writing that but here we are)

"Brother, this is truly unnecessary," Loki groaned, fighting every urge to drag his feet as his brother led him down the halls of the Avengers Compound, avoiding the mix of curious and alarmed stares from the Midgardians donning near-identical jumpsuits. "Rogers' begrudging approval of your truly asinine idea was enough, you need not lead introductions. I am quite sure that Stark and the rest of your comrades have not forgotten who I am."

Thor simply rolled his eyes in response. "Of course they have not forgotten, Brother, but we have had quite the number of newcomers, and I will run not the risk of them reacting with hostility if they cross paths with you. So I shall conduct a simple extemporized introductory session with them so they may…acclimate to your presence in the Compound. And not think it a clandestine invasion and trigger a security lockdown."

As if right on cue, two faces, one familiar and the other quite new to the god of mischief approached, the sounds of their jovial exchange coming to a deadening halt. The smiles on their faces quickly morphed into furrowed brows and battle stances. "Thor, why have you brought him here?" the woman with auburn hair questioned, a red energy that he recognized as Chaos Magic forming in her hands while her companion, Romanoff, looked ready to strike.

"Please, stand down, my friends." The blond god held his hands up in front of them. "He means no harm, I promise you. I've brought him here so that perhaps he could join--"

"Not a fucking chance, Barbie," Romanoff seethed. "I still remember the mind job he did--Wanda what are you doing? Why are you actually listening--"

"Because some time ago I did what you call a 'mind job' on the rest of you," she answered the former Russian spy simply, standing down and waving her magic away. "And now here I get to stand, calling you all my friends. Because you forgave me for my misdeeds. Gave me a second chance. I think we should all extend the same kindness now."

"I commend the way you think, Maximoff," Rogers' voice echoed across the common area, bystanders not so subtly beginning to crowd the area surrounding them, only parting to let the super soldier through and take his stance in the middle of the group. "Much as I'm not the biggest fan of Mister Leather and Metal 'you will all kneel before me', Wanda's right." He took a step back and addressed the room. "Everyone, Loki will be joining us for the foreseeable future. I expect you all to make an effort to help him adjust to his new life here on Earth. Or at least not get in his way. Now, back to work. All of you."

The curious agents all scattered about, returning to their tasks prior to the Asgardian brothers arriving.

"Thank you, Steven," Thor spoke up once the bystanders made themselves scarce. "You will not regret--"

"Not so fast, Odinson." Rogers threw his hand up, stopping his brother's words short. "I want him to meet Y/L/N first. If she says he won't give us any grief, then he can stay. She says no? You'll have to find another place to park your brother."

"Hey--!" Loki fought back the urge to throw a dagger in the soldier's direction. "I am not some meager property that needs to be set down--"

"If you would rather Strange lock you back in an eternal fall, that can be arranged," he shot back, the muscles in his jaw twitching in a telltale sign that he was fighting back a smug grin. He motioned toward the interrogation area, showing the way. "Meet Y/L/N, and we'll go from there."

Thor led the way further into the Compound and past the common area, the temperature dropping significantly and impelling the god to cast an enchantment that would raise his core temperature so as to not trigger his Jotun form to emerge. "Apologies, Brother," he spoke as they made their way down the hall. "There have been suspicions that an intern for one of SHIELD's departments has been a HYDRA operative attempting to pilfer data to fuel some form of invasion. This individual is in one of the interrogation rooms now awaiting Y/N's arrival, and the temperature was her idea. Put the young man in a sense of high discomfort to lower his guards."

"Have him focus on making his body cope with the temperature rather than his mind on deflecting her queries," he surmised, nodding his head as they stepped into the viewing area, laying eyes on the clearly novice employee in that same jumpsuit the others wore outside. His breathing was jittery and labored, rubbing his hands furiously to generate even some form of heat. It wouldn't be difficult to break through his defenses. "She's a clever one, that mortal. Though I could save you all the interrogation and read the lad's mind--"

"No no," Thor waved him off, motioning for him to look into the room once more. "I want you to see her at work. It's rather fascinating watching her work, and the machination of her mind is rather…perplexing."

"Should we be contacting one Doctor Foster to inform her of his…fascination of yours, Brother?" he gibed, raising an eyebrow in suspicion and finding himself a touch more curious when Thor simply laughed off the question.

"My heart is Jane's and Jane's alone, Brother. You know this," he answered, giving his brother a pointed look. Guilt sat heavily on his heart, knowing full well the words that the god of thunder chose to omit. Considering that I destroyed the Bifrost just to protect her from you.

It would take time before amends were made for making that particular threat, no matter how empty it truly was.

Before Loki could say anything, the door on the other side of the two-way mirror opened, a hard-faced Agent Romanoff entering the room and taking the seat opposite the suspected traitor. She made a point to shrug off her jacket and bare her arms, the action making the young man's face twist in derision, undoubtedly because it challenged his quite fragile ego even more.

"I have nothing to say to you," he said, the shaking tone of his voice betraying him. "Why aren't you cold? You all did something to me, didn't you? Made your freaky witch friend cast some curse on me?"

Romanoff leaned back against her chair, her smirk growing as his scowl deepened. "Where I was from, this is what summer felt like," she shot back casually, keeping her tone even despite the bold-faced lie. "And I don't need you to say anything." She jutted her chin in the direction of the door, a proud look on her face as you walked in to the room. "I just need her to look at you."

"Mister Park…" you droned, taking your time to cross the distance from the door to the cold metal desk. "I'm Agent Y/L/N, I'll be your interrogator."

You leaned in to the edge of the table, gripping the corners. Your body stiffened for a few seconds as you took a sharp breath, adjusting to the frigid cold. There was a distant, calculating, enigmatic smile on your face as your eyes roamed his features. Almost as if you were picking away at the fragments of his protective shell, exposing the answers he refused to give with just that one look.

It was a sight that was all too familiar to him. Something his mother would use on suspected traitors to the Realm back in Asgard. Perhaps that was what you were doing, after all. Or perhaps it was a well-crafted facade. Something that Romanoff or another former spy within SHIELD's ranks had taught you to unnerve its recipient.

"Like I told Agent Hot Stuff over there, I have nothing to say to any of you," he sneered.

"And like Agent Romanoff told you, we don't need you to say anything. All you have to do…is sit there." You squinted your eyes at him, sighing deeply as you said the words that apparently cemented the suspected traitor's fate. "I've got a bad feeling about you." You leaned in close, invading his personal space and making him even more visibly uneasy, not even bothering to mask how his body was shaking. "Nice contacts."

In a heartbeat, Agent Romanoff leaned across the desk and grasped the bottom of the apparently confirmed traitor's face, the man they called Park now wincing and groaning in even more discomfort as she inspected his eyes. "Implants?" she asked you.

"Seems buddy boy here's really committed to the cause," you remarked, mocking their organization's salute. "Helium Hydrogen or some shit."

Park slammed his fists down on the table, neither woman even flinching at the outburst. As if you both saw it coming. "It's Heil Hydra, you stupid bitch!" he screamed, fighting against Romanoff's hold and trying to stand up from his seat to charge at you.

You, however, simply responded with a self-satisfied grin as you called out toward the other side of the door, "And there's our verbal confirmation! Lock 'im up." And just to goad the traitorous intern on further, you ruffled his hair and looked him dead in the eyes and said, "Thank you for your cooperation."

Right as you said the words, Rogers burst into the room along with two other agents, flanking him and restricting his movement so he couldn't charge at anyone in the room. "Put him in the holding cells until transport gets here," he instructed the agents, who simply nodded and walked the traitor out of the room.

You and Romanoff turned off the lights and walked out arm in arm. Loki caught a smidgen of your conversation about meeting the significant other of another new Avenger. Something about "earning your stamp of approval".

"What did I tell you, Brother?" Thor prompted, nudging his arm.

"Fascinating," he mumbled, unable to wipe the image of that enigmatic smile of yours from his mind. Wondering what you looked like when you were genuinely beaming at something. Or someone. "It seems she's somewhat telepathically inclined."

"That is what many of us have been trying to tell her, but she refuses to listen. Insists that she is simply better inclined at reading others from her years of dreadfully flawed relationships of 'every kind'," he explained, leading him down the same hallway that you and Romanoff had disappeared to moments ago. "Repeatedly tells us that her most effective and only teacher has been, in her words, her life's revolving door of shitty people."

"And Rogers wishes for me to meet this Y/N so that she may what? Approve of my being here? He defers to her when it comes to newcomers in your merry band of his realm's mightiest heroes?" He tried to mask his curiosity with his signature smarm, trying to seem disinterested in what seemed like an initiation rite.

But in truth he was all the more looking forward to being face to face with you.

"She has not yet been incorrect in the years that I have known her. And you have nothing to fret about, Brother. You will make a fine addition to this team," the blond said proudly, both of them finally arriving to the considerably warmer common area. Loki finally lifted his enchantment, no longer concerned of his Jotun form emerging as his brother raised his hand and called out in your direction, "Y/N! I have returned from Asgard and there is someone I wish for you to meet--"

"In a minute, Barbie. Carter's bringing in her latest beau. Something about her wanting me to have a read on him before she gets too invested," you answered him, throwing your hand up in their direction. You threw a cursory glance their way, barely registering the raven-haired god, before returning your gaze to the door where another unfamiliar face walked in, arm in arm with a man whose entire aura screamed 'philanderer'.

"Y/N, I'd like you to meet Nathan. Nathan, sweetie, this is my friend--"

"Wow you're stunning," the man said, raising his hand in front of him, seemingly to shake yours. But the positioning seemed…off. As if he were to turn your hand and kiss the back of it the second you even brought yours a fraction of an inch upward.

One look into this Nathan's thoughts all but confirmed it. Along with all the other deplorable indiscretions he had stacked against him.

If the god's suspicions were right and you truly were telepathically inclined, you would see those indiscretions, too. With the right guidance, you could explore the true scope of your abilities. Perhaps even advance them.

Your unmoving stance brought along a disquiet to your friend's features, her smile fading into a grim line as her eyes drooped and her posture slumped. She'd seen this reaction from you before, and she seemed to already brace herself for your next words.

"I've got a bad feeling about you," you said in an ominous tone, standing at your full height before tilting your head slightly. From where he stood, Loki could see the man grow visibly anxious, his pulse quickening and beating furiously against his neck.

"What--Why what'd you see?" your friend croaked out, fighting back sobs.

You chose to instead address the deplorable excuse of a man. "You checked out no less than three women since you walked through the front door, and at least twice you wondered if any of them would be down for a threesome. You have a secret social media account that you use to sext other women and send them your dick pics, ohh and by the way…that pump that you're using? Doesn't do shit."

The god had never seen someone's complexion visibly pale until now, Nathan losing all color in his face as if he'd been drained of blood. "You--You d-don't know what you're talking about, you fucking freak!" He looked to Carter, his eyes rife with panic. "Babe, your weird friend here's just pulling this all out of her ass, she's lying--"

His paltry laughable excuses were cut off with a chorus of hissing sounds and "ooh"s and "yikes" from your team, as if his words were so offensive they physically stung. Stark spoke up, clapping his hand down on the man's shoulder. "Now see here, Rudolph the horny reindeer, you've made at least five mistakes since you stepped through that door. But calling Y/N here a liar? Yeah, that dug your grave, dick for brains."

"Well then she's wrong!" he whined, grabbing for his lover's hands and holding on with a death grip. "Baby, you know me, I'm your pookie bear. I would never hurt you--"

"Oof goddamn now I wish I was lying," you quipped, a mixture of surprise and disgust coloring your features. "You couldn't waterboard that nickname out of me. Maybe try going for something that doesn't sound like a name a toddler would give a stuffed animal for the next one? You probably have her all lined up, right? Somewhere in all those DMs and FaceApp'd shrimpy photoshoots?" You took a step closer, not seeming to care about how his free hand was clenched so tightly into a fist that it began to shake. "By the way, I hope you age checked those girls. I'll give you two pieces of free advice. First? Age of consent in New York is seventeen. Second? Don't treat it like a damn target."

Your friend Carter finally jerked her hand out of his and struck him across the face, the sound reverberating through the common area. Stark raised his brows and nodded at her in approval, making a remark about how he wished he had some popcorn.

"It's over," she told him. "I don't ever want to hear from you again." Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she said the words and motioned toward the same door they walked through just minutes before.

"I'm not going anywhere," he insisted, acting like a misbehaving toddler and stomping his foot. "Why would you even believe this freaky little bitch over your own boyfriend, I thought we had some--"

"Because we trust her, cradle robber. And to this day she's never been wrong about a damn thing," Stark sniped, walking over and putting himself between you and the increasingly belligerent Nathan. He placed a tablet in Carter's hands. "I took the liberty of getting into his second account and sending screenshots of his messages to…well, just about everyone in his contacts list. But I figured you ought to see it and scroll through the messages first hand, Sharon."

At this moment, Loki caught another glimpse into the philandering man's mind, seeing a vision of him intending to attack you and strangle you with his bare hands. And just as the god suspected, you had glimpsed the same thought running through his mind, side stepping out of the way just before Nathan could get a hold of you. He watched with more than mild amusement as Thor stepped forward next and grabbed the whining man by the back of his shirt and lifting him into the air.

"Any mortal capable of even the tiniest amount of coherent thought would know better than to attack my friends," the blond said in a low, authoritative tone that eerily reminded Loki of their father. He promptly walked Nathan to the same door that he and Carter had walked through; Loki could see that his brother was physically fighting the urge to give the impudent puny mortal a swift kick to his rear as he gave him a nudge out of the premises.

"Thank you, Barbie," you spoke, an equally amused look on your face after witnessing the whole ordeal. "Always knew it was a good idea to have an Asgardian bouncer guard dog around."

Once Thor had made his way back to you and the rest of the team, you and he grasped each other's forearms. A show of respect that the blond oaf usually only had reserved for his closest comrades, the Warriors Four. Only recently had he even done that with Loki, and while the god of mischief would never admit it aloud, the gesture had him fighting back that traitorous prickling in the backs of his eyes.

"Speaking of having Asgardians in the Compound, there is someone I wish for you to meet, Lady Y/N," he spoke, motioning toward his brother. You tilted your head, a smile so starkly different from the one you had in the interrogation room brightening your features the moment your eyes met Loki's. "This is my brother, and he could be quite an invaluable asset to the team."

"With your go ahead, Agent Y/L/N," Rogers spoke from his seat, intently watching the scene play out before him. Once again agents had begun to crowd around them, completely halting their movements to bear witness. "Like Stark said, we trust you."

You barely gave a response, the only indicator that you'd even heard Rogers' words being a slight jut of your chin in his direction. Loki took your considerably smaller outstretched hand in his, taking every bit of his strength to stay upright as the visions bombarded his mind. The smallest gasp slipped from your lips. You took a moment to compose yourself before you spoke, addressing the team.

"All clear, he can stay," you announced, a boisterous whoop coming from Thor the second you gave your judgment. Neither of you made a move to let go of the other's hand.

"Okay not to take a page out of your book here, jellybean, but…" Stark spoke, breaking you two out of your own little bubble. He pointed his finger back and forth between you and the raven-haired god. "I've got a bad feeling about the two of you."

Stop smiling, you literal idiot, you chided yourself as you paced the floor of your apartment. There was no logical reason to even be thinking of the new member of the team now that you weren't around him, and yet you couldn't get the jet black-haired Asgardian dressed in dark emerald leather out of your mind.

The bar must have been in hell if all it took to get you to actually smile was the fact that the second you two met eyes, no alarm bells went off the way that they did for that newbie traitor…or Sharon's now ex boyfriend. The only hunch that you got looking at him was that he was definitely there to watch the interrogation and trying to figure out how you clocked the iris implants on Park.

"Maybe if he figures it out, he could clue me in on it, too, because I don't have the foggiest fucking idea where that came from," you muttered into the emptiness. And then like clockwork, you found yourself thinking about his blinding brilliant smile again.

And the way his hand completely dwarfed yours.

And how even in those few moments in the common room, being around him for some reason blanketed you in this feeling as if, for the first time in a long time, you didn't have to be as careful anymore. Like you no longer had to constantly be looking over your shoulder because someone might actually have your back and--

"Now you're just being ridiculous, Y/N," you grumbled at yourself, staring down your reflection. "How many times have you had your heart shattered from trusting too easily? Feeling safe around him is exactly why you shouldn't feel safe, why is it that for all the people that trust your instincts, you can't seem to listen to them yourself? And have I lost my freaking mind I am talking to my own--"

Knock knock knock

The sound came from your front door, snapping you out of your rant. "Who in the fuck?"

A lump formed in your throat when you opened the door, looking up at the exact stormy blue eyes that refused to leave your mind since you met him a little over an hour ago. The ones that made a question form in your mind that you couldn't bring yourself to voice out.

Why do I have a good feeling about you?

"Loki…" you said his name slowly, trying your best to ignore how bizarrely right it felt to say it. As if you were meant to. As if you were going to say it -- scream it, even -- for years to come.

"Good evening, Y/N." What you couldn't ignore was how the sound of your name from his lips made your knees want to buckle. "I wish to speak to you about something that I saw when I touched your hand earlier. A vision. Of the future."

The lump in your throat suddenly got bigger. "Ohh God am I gonna die? Soon? Because if I am I don't want spoilers, not even hints, what's gonna happen is gonna--"

"I saw us," he cut you off, reaching for your hands and rubbing circles on the inside of your wrists. "Years of stolen glances and missed opportunities and unsaid words. And it was only at the brink of losing you forever that I finally would find the courage to tell you of my affections."

There were no words, all you could do was blink at him as you tried to process his words. Looking desperately for the telltale signs that there was a disconnect between what he was saying and what his actual intentions were for coming to you like this. The disconnect that was present with most men that you were face to face with.

And yet your intuition, that hadn't failed you for as long as you could remember, was practically squealing with glee that you could feel safe around the god.

"Why are you telling me this?" you asked him. You were surprised you could even form words. Or that you somehow managed to bite your tongue from letting slip a more abrasive question.

He stepped closer to you, a soft smile on his face as he gently framed your face with his hands. "I don't wish to spend the next years pining away and foolishly waiting for the timing to be just right. I had glimpsed our future, and it was…" His smile widened into a brilliant grin, his thumbs tracing along your cheekbones. "It was resplendent. Having even the most fleeting glimpse that what we would have, it had me awash with…peace. The kind that I had longed for for centuries."

Your breath hitched when he pressed his lips to your forehead, your heart pounding away furiously in your chest. You knew a little too well the feeling that he was describing. That feeling of peace. Of a calm quietude that put you at ease even if the world would have been crashing down around you.

That feeling like you were home.

"Now as for your unspoken question," he whispered, breath warming your skin. "Of what am I doing here…I wish to change that future. Or rather, hasten it along. If that is what you want as well, of course."

He pressed his forehead to yours, loosely wrapping his arms around you. All you could do was nod, secretly grateful that he was holding you upright because the violent fluttering in your stomach was making it hard to stand.

That feeling spread throughout your entire body like wildfire when he briefly brushed his lips against yours; you could feel how much restraint he was exerting to pull away. To test the waters. To wait for you to tell him it was alright.

And you let out the words that were fighting to break free since you first saw him earlier today. "I have a good feeling about you."

A/N: *peeks out from behind the laptop* ohai there…long time no see 🙈 Imma say it again because it bears repeating: I'm rusty as all fuck and I might be for a while, but I'm trying to get back into writing since I haven't really done much ever since starting the new job. But things are finally beginning to settle down and normalize, so I'm trying to somehow find a groove again.

I'm gonna be so real w/ y'all, the next stuff on my queue is RTC and 'the final Lady Sharpe' and with how rusty my prose feels, I'm so scared to touch them 😂

Also this is another story that was inspired by a TikTok pov trend. The one where people lip sync and act along to the song that goes "Oompa Loompa doopadeedoo I've got a bad feeling about you", as if it wasn't cringe enough 🥴🫡

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @tom-hlover @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist

[peachesofteal]

Soap x Cypher's masterlist 18+ mdni / dark and twisty themes / dubcon / explicit, spanking Soap/female reader Sergeant MacTavish teaches you a lesson about honesty

"Cypher."

"Yeah?" You barely look up, too focused on the raw data that's filtering across your screen.

"Laswell asked for you." You don't hear it at first, the request. You're too lost in the lines and lines of code, numbers, letters, symbols all working together, where is it, where- "Cypher!" your coworker barks, and you jump.

"Shit. Sorry... what?"

"Laswell. Upstairs. Briefing room. Now?" Your lips quirk, head hanging. Yeah, guess you deserved that.

"Did she say for what?"

"No. And it's not my place to ask." They jerk their head, and you lockdown your console. Fine.

Station Chief Laswell scares you. She's probably one of the smartest people you've ever met, quick with analysis, observation, she can read a situation from top to bottom in less than three seconds. She knows everyone, and everything.

And, she handles the 141.

You don't have frequent interaction with her. You report to her, ultimately, but it's hard to understand where she falls on the org chart. It's hard to understand where you fall on the org chart, if you're being honest, since you're not military, just a civilian contractor. All of the authoritative titling and chain of command makes your head spin a little bit, and you've pretty much decided to ignore it all. Keep your head down, do your job, mind your ps and qs. Your yes sirs and no sirs.

You tap your knuckles against the briefing room door.

"Come in." It's a man's voice, a deep, smooth voice with a British accent, and it makes you pause, confused. I thought Laswell was up here?

You push the door open, hesitantly, and what you find makes your stomach nearly crawl up into your mouth.

The 141 are in here. You glance around hastily before finding Laswell, eyes a little wider than you’re comfortable with. They’re all seated at the table, looking at you, and when you peek at Sergeant MacTavish, he cocks his head so subtly, you might have missed it. Fuck. Shit. Why is he looking at you like that? You think you might pass out. Why do you feel like this around him?

"Gentleman. This is the civilian specialist I told you about." She gestures to you, giving them your government name before continuing, and they all nod. "This is Captain Price, Lieutenant Riley, Sergeant Garrick, and Sergeant MacTavish." She points to each, making the introductions to which you nod, and smile, trying as hard as you can to make eye contact so they don't think you're rude. When she gets to MacTavish, your stomach heats, and on instinct, your eyes drop to the floor before glancing back up to find him focused on you, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.

"You're Cypher." Lieutenant Riley comments, and you nod, surprised. How does he know you?

"That's uh... my nickname. Sir."

“Cypher is our resident analytics expert, and we believe she’s located your targets.” Laswell continues, tapping a key on her laptop that wakes up the black screen of the giant TV. You do a double take when you see your work up there, your lists of compiled data, cross matched and sorted. “I was hoping you could walk them through some of this.” Oh. Oh no. Talk to them?

“Uh okay.” Your fingers find each other, instinctually, trying to pick and tear at your skin as your heart rate speeds up. “This is-“ you glance at the screen, and then back at their expectant faces. Sergeant MacTavish is watching you, predatory gleam in his eyes, and you gulp. Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here. “This is a highlight of hot zones in two different target cities. It’s pulled from local agencies’ databases, everything from license plate readers to residency records, IP hits and census information. After cross matching with all possible identities for your targets, family members, associated persons, patterns of behavior, I confidently believe I've identified and located your subjects, and they reside in these areas.”

"You know who they are?" The Captain asks, surprised, and you nod.

“How confident are ye?” Sergeant MacTavish asks, and you blink.

“Uh, like ninety percent” He looks… displeased. “Sir.” You tack on at the end, hoping to see some sort of approval for it, and when it doesn’t come, the ache inside you widens.

“I like those odds. Heard you were good, but this is something' else. Our intelligence has been working on ID'ing these guys for months with no luck.” Sergeant Garrick raises an eyebrow, exchanging a look with his Captain, and you brighten a little bit. Okay, that’s good. Right? You did good?

“Not sure ninety percent is good enough.” Sergeant MacTavish answers, and Laswell nods like she agrees. You wilt. Welp. And now your boss agrees. “Can ye show me the raw data?”

“I- sure, it’s…” you snap your mouth shut abruptly when he stands, and motions for you to follow him out the door.

“Let’s go then.”

You don’t make it back down to your console. Instead, he pushes you inside a maintenance closet, hand firm on your shoulder, guiding you down to your knees in the back, behind a shelf.

“Sergeant I don’t understand, I-“

“Ye tryin’ to send us out on a wild goose chase?”

“What?” You stare up at him, jaw slack. He’s terrifying, lit by damp, yellow light, arms crossed in front of his chest. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something that makes your thighs press together instinctively and at the same time, your heart starts palpitating. “Sir, I don’t-“ his hand darts forward, pinching your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, squishing them just a bit with a menacing smile.

"Are ye tryin' to send us on a wild goose chase? Yes or no, specialist."

"Nossir." It mushes together in your mouth, vowels trapped between your cheeks, and he nods.

"I didnae think ye were." He releases you, only to step closer, and you gulp when his hands find the waistband of your pants. "Take these to yer knees. Now."

"My... my pants?"

"Aye." When you don't move, he sighs. "Ye dinnae want me to have to ask a second time, do ye?" And no, you don't. Because you're sure whatever is coming will be far worse if you test his patience.

It's humiliating, dropping the pants to your knees, and the mortification gets even worse when his finger slips under the hem of your very boring, generic brand black cotton thong, pulling it with a yank so it jerks you forward and you almost trip.

"Sergeant... Sir, I'm sorry, I-"

"Why are ye sorry? Stay put." He turns away for a second, locating an old, fold up chair that he sets up where he was standing, settling into it with his knees spread. "Now, come."

"I'm sorry, I don't know why... why this is happening, I don't understand." You try to explain your confusion, but it all comes out as nonsense, and he nods, sympathetically, like he's sad for you, in a mocking, cruel way.

He taps his thigh.

"Hips here." He instructs, moving you like a doll when you start to bend down, pressing your belly against one leg, your breasts and collarbone against the other, ass in the air. "Bleedin' Christ. Ye sure are a sight." He squeezes you, fingers rough in the swell of your cheeks, before smoothing over the skin of your hip, pressing a firm palm to the small of your back. "Do ye know why we're doin' this?"

"No." You whisper, eyes closed. You don't know why you're doing any of this, why he's doing it. You don't know why he picked you, why he keeps you in his sights, why he has you bent over his knee. You don't know why you felt floaty and fucked up after the first time, why you dreamt about it, why you felt like you needed it. This is wrong. Isn't it? He swats your ass, barely a tap, and you flinch. "Sir. Sorry. Sir."

"Ye said you were ninety percent."

"I did."

"But I know, ye're better than ninety percent, aren't ye, my wee genius?" Your lungs are burning with the breath you're holding, and you let it out in a burst.

"Yes." You whisper to the floor.

"Why did ye lie?" The question is followed by a swing of air, and then a palm is stinging across your skin, pin prickles of pain making you whimper. "Count."

"One-e." You gasp. He doesn't pull his punches. He strikes fast. True. Twice in a row, the intensity making you choke on a whine. "Two, three. I didn't."

"Ye did." He rubs the point of impact, cooing at your ass like it needs comfort, before asking again. "Why did ye lie?"

"I wasn't, I-" Smack. This one comes in the exact same spot, a cruel choice, and you bite down on your lip, eyes scrunching shut. "Four."

"Why did ye lie?" You don't answer right away, and he swings, palm swatting down onto your other cheek, skin rippling beneath the hit. It steals your breath, and he prompts you again, with the same question, and you fail to answer, his response coming swiftly against you, smacking raw against burning skin. It's starting to shift now, the pain blurring the lines between uncomfortable and unbearable, while also taking on a different characteristic all together, one that has blood rushing beneath your skin, clit rubbing against the front of your pulled tight thong uncomfortably, not enough contact or pressure to do anything, but enough to drive you insane. You blink, trying to keep yourself together, trying to prevent floating away into space somewhere.

"Sir!" You pant, and he laughs, shadow of a hand swinging through the air, landing against you with a resounding crack.

"Tell me. Why did ye lie?"

"I-" You scramble for an answer. Why did you lie? Why didn't you just say the truth, the facts. What you knew, without a doubt. Why did you lie? "I was scared."

"Of what?"

"Of... of the room. Of making a mistake."

"But ye didnae make a mistake. Ye found a needle in a haystack." You nod. He's right, you did. "So the next time I ask ye how confident ye are, ye say one hundred. Ye tell everyone in that room, that ye did something other people can't, and ye own it."

"Y-yes sir." You whisper, and he runs a palm over the screaming skin of your ass.

"Good girl." He murmurs, your lower lip trembling. "Ye did good for me. So good."

"Thank you." You sniffle, and he shifts your body, lowering you to your knees in front of the chair, pants bunched under your bones like a little cushion.

"Sir?" You ask, confused as he pats your cheek, bending to press a long, hot kiss to your mouth, fingertips stroking across your pussy, overtop your underwear, before pulling back with a devilish smirk.

“Open.” He instructs, and your eyes widen. “Not goin’ tell ye again, sweet Cy. Open. Now.” You do, lips parting, mouth cranking wide, and he removes his fingers, hand drifting to his pants. Oh, fuck.

If your mouth wasn’t already hanging open, it would have dropped to the floor when he pulled his cock free. It’s long, long enough that it’s intimidating, and thick, probably as wide as your wrist, flushed red at the tip. There’s a bead of pre come dripping from the head, cozy crop of brown curls at the base.

“S-s-sir.” You squeak, and he smiles, cupping the back of your head as he taps your lips with it. "It won't- I can't, it's too-"

"I'll teach ye." He grunts, feeding you his cock slowly, tears falling down over your cheeks when he presses it into the back of your throat, as much as you can go, not even to the root yet. "That's it. Jus' like that, easy." He uses your mouth, your face, hand firm on the back of your head, stroking in and out between your lips until they go numb, faster and faster until you believe you might pass out, cock head jamming down past your tongue, blocking your airway with each thrust. You think you might black out. You could be blacked out right now, and not even know. You're not positive you're still in your body, the body with a sore, stinging ass, wet pussy, and occupied mouth, your Sergeant using you as he sees fit, determined to possess you like some sort of demon. You gag on him, throat seizing, and he pushes through it, bound and determined, your name a ragged whisper whistling through his teeth. "Fuck, swallow it. Dinnae lose a drop." He grits, and then plunges all the way, flooding you with sticky, sour salted earth that pours down your throat, hot come dripping down into your stomach.

You sit there, on your knees, after, stunned, unmoving. He shifts around you, pulling your pants up, fixing your hair, wiping your face. He's speaking to you too, murmuring soft words in your ear, lips touching your cheek, your temple, something about how good you are, how sweet, how he's not going to let anything happen to you, how you don't have to worry, because he's here now- and you slip into it like you're falling into your bed, closing your eyes and drifting away, melting into his side when he gathers you up, cradles you against his chest.

"C'mon sweet Cy. Let's get ye to bed."

[lilac-nites]

List of Lolita Resources

Someone in my comm encouraged me to make this list of resources for new lolitas. We were talking about how hard it can be to find information from Google search and there's just so much misinformation out there. I have a list of links that I've bookmarked and read over the past decade for when I finally become a lolita. I organized the list by sections in a specific order. It goes from information about the fashion and then to where to buy it.

To any new lolitas, there is so much information out there about lolita fashion that is still available. Part of the fun for me was researching the fashion, looking at coords, and learning what makes lolita lolita. There's so much information out there for you to immerse yourself in and even more stuff that's not listed in this resource list.

What is Lolita Fashion

Fyeah Lolita - This is my favorite blog and I still go back and read it. The last post was made in 2016 and the fashion has changed a lot since then, but it's pretty comprehensive and provides a good base knowledge. Imo, I think these articles (1 2 3 4) are required reading for anyone entering the fashion Lolita Fashion 101 - Bay Area Kei did several videos on lolita fashion during lockdowns. I recommend them for anyone that prefers video format. Raine Dragon's Lolita 101 series - Raine is a lolita that still updates her blog and has a lot of information on the history of lolita fashion. And she has a really great article on Chinese indie brands that should also be required reading for anyone new to using Taobao.

Costs of Lolita Manufacturing - One of the first things you'll notice is that lolita can be expensive. This resource breaks down the costs associated with manufacturing and why brands charge what they charge.

Substyles of Lolita Fashion

The below links are for the three basic styles of lolita fashion. If you research more, you'll find that there are different directions that you can take your wardrobe, but I recommend starting with one of the three above to make it easier for to build your wardrobe. Classic Lolita Sweet Lolita Gothic Lolita

Where to get Lolita Fashion

Before even buying anything, you will need a tape measure to take your measurements. You'll need to measure your bust, waist, hips, and shoulder width in centimeters. That's how you will find out which clothes will fit you. Sizing can be different from brand to brand and country to country. I know many are used to buying using letter sizes, but it's best to go by actual measurements. Aim to buy clothes that are 4 - 6cm larger than your actual measurements to allow room for breathing/eating/etc. If you're brand new to the fashion, I highly recommend sticking to the sources listed in the videos below. It's very easy to get scammed if you don't know what to look for and I'd hate for anyone to lose their money on barely wearable clothes from Amazon/Ebay/Aliexpress. Where to Buy Lolita FashionHow to shop for Lolita Fashion online - secondhand is life for lolita fashion and there are so many options. PinkFakeFlowers goes in depth into the many ways to get it. I personally recommend 42lolita for anyone looking to buy from Chinese brands on Taobao.

Plus Size Lolita

Unfortunately, many of the Japanese brands and even some Chinese indie brands are not size inclusive. If you can't fit into the mainstream brands, don't worry there are still options. I always recommend Meta since they have a Plus Size and occasionally a Plus Plus size of their dresses and blouses that goes up to 160cm or even 200cm in some releases. Plus Size Lolita Crash Course Where to Start as a Plus Sized Lolita - This is a wonderful resource listing brands that are size inclusive.

Online Spaces for Lolita Fashion

Lolita fashion is pretty spread out now compared to the EGL (still recommend reading livejournal because its a cool time capsule of the lolita comm) days, but there are still groups on Facebook. BSoLF - Great for beginners to ask questions and be helped by others. It's hard to search here but I recommend looking through the group for info. Your Local Comm (if applicable) - most are still on Facebook even if they still have a Discord. You can search for your local one on this list.

More Resources for New Lolitas

Lolita Tips for New Lolitas Three helpful tips for coordinating an outfit Lolita Tips Tumblr - I don't recommend Fanplusfriend anymore, but 42lolita is a good replacement. This tumblr is a great resource for inspo and there are many answered asks to reference. Unfortunately, polyvore is no longer a thing and many pictures are missing as a result.

Bonus

These are just a mishmash of links to resources/lists/blog that I like. Lolita Collective

Lolita youtubers ask

Lolita tumblrs ask 20dollarlolita and her post on replicas

More plus size lolita brands ask Japanese Wikipedia entry for Lolita fashion and list of brands

Azuki Mikan

Buttcape

Old School Lolita

[the-guilty-writer]

Work The Case

Request from @doctorsteeb: This may be too sensitive a topic but just an idea— Hotch!daughter taking out a school shooter?

Aaron Hotchner x daughter!reader

Summary: A normal Tuesday takes a turn when you come face to face with your father's work.

A/N: Not going to lie I wasn't going to write this because I felt like the idea was too sensitive but then I remembered that I'm the queen of writing too sensitive things in real life so I may as well do that here too (within limits of course. I still have ethics). So here it is!

CW: school shooting, fatal gun shot, talks of foyet, talks of dead mothers, talks of car crashes, talks of drunk driving, talks of divorce, Jackson Pollok slander

---

The morning started out like any other Tuesday: you got up and ready for the day before having breakfast with your dad and brother- oatmeal and orange juice- then your dad drove you and Jack to school. Jack always got dropped off first at the elementary school, and you at the high school. The ride between the two was short, but it was always long enough for a small, private conversation between you and your father.

“You okay?” he asked you. 

Ugh. Profilers.

“I’m…” You thought about saying ‘fine,’ but you knew he wouldn’t take that as an answer. You sighed. “The teacher let the class vote on what chapter we would cover in class next, so we started on abnormal criminal psychology yesterday.”

“Oh.” You’d never heard your dad sound so uncertain.

“It’s an extra chapter. Since it’s not listed in the curriculum we aren’t being tested on the material. The teacher told me I could spend that period in the library if it was… too much,” you finished.

You dad pulled in front of the school, leaning over to kiss you on the forehead goodbye. “Whatever you need, sweetheart.”

“Thanks,” you told him. 

“Try to have a good day,” he said before you shut the car door.

You nodded. “I’ll try.”

---

You took your teacher’s offer and went to the library instead of their classroom. The space was large, but mostly empty of people- there was just the librarian behind her desk and a few students scattered amongst the tables. You took a seat and pulled out your homework, trying not to think about what they were learning back in the classroom. You’d honestly overheard enough phone calls that whatever they were learning about you already knew. There was a buzz in your pocket, which automatically made you freeze. You kept your phone on do not disturb through the school day. The only reason your phone would buzz would be if your dad was texting you… and if your dad was texting you it was an emergency.

You pulled your phone out and you were right- it was a text from your dad. Three words: Work the case.

Shit. That was code for you and Jack to hide- to hide somewhere that you wouldn’t be found unless you wanted to be. You looked around the library, but the area was like an open plain. You shoved your work in your backpack and hurried towards the doors-

BOOM!

A gunshot.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

People began to scream. Through the glass windows of the library you could see students running, but it wasn’t because they were late to class. The lockdown alarm sounded and you scrambled under one of the tables, hoping it would be enough cover.

There was a stillness and a silence for a minute and you hoped that it was over, but gunshots rang out again- this time they were louder than they had been before. Someone was getting closer.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, making it feel as though your entire body was thumping to its too-fast rhythm. You wanted to cry, but you didn’t shed any tears. You wondered if this was what it had been like for Jack when Foyet had killed your mother and then tried to kill your father. As part of WISTEC, you had been sent away to a private boarding school with an alias while Jack and your mom were sent elsewhere. In the end, sending you away had saved your life, but now you were wondering if you were going to die soon anyway.

That was, until the library doors burst open. From your view under the table you could only see old shoes and baggy jeans but you heard the shots that were fired into the air.

“Get up! All of you!” It was a male voice.

You, along with the six other students in the library that had all dropped to the floor, looked around at one another- who would make the decision to stand up or stay down? Who would make that call?

More shots were fired. “I said get up!”

You thought about your dad- what would he do? And so you were the one to make the call, the first student to crawl out slowly from under the table and rise, your hands held up to show that you were no threat. The rest of the students followed your lead. This was your team now- if one of them died, it was on you.

You looked at the shooter and you knew who he was- Timmy Rogers. He’d been in some of your classes in middle school and high school. He had always been quiet- the kind of kid who did well in class but never answered any questions. The person who put their share into a group project and didn’t complain about having to pick up the slack if someone else bailed. He was nice enough of a person that you wouldn’t have expected him to be holding a firearm in the middle of your school, but then again most unsubs could keep themselves hidden for years- that much you knew.

“Line up against the wall. Now!” he shouted.

You walked calmly to the wall while some of the other students scampered. One girl was crying. Another boy’s fists were twisted with fear. The librarian was on her knees, pleading with Timmy. “You’re a good boy. You always have been. Your mother-”

“Don’t talk about my mother! Don’t talk about me! You don’t know me!”

“Yes I do,” the librarian was crying. “I do know you and your mom wouldn’t have wanted-”

Timmy pulled the trigger and she was gone. He marched over and grabbed the girl who was crying, dragging her out in front for the rest of you to see. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” She fell to her knees. “Please, I’m sorry-”

You thought quickly about everything you knew about Timmy. He wasn’t an athlete by any means but he joined the wrestling team anyway, he liked art and his project last year was based on his parent’s divorce, his father was a marine, and his mom…

Oh. His mom had died in a car crash last week. She was hit by a drunk driver.

“You never cared about me!” he yelled. “Nobody cares about me. Nobody cared about her-”

“I did.” You didn’t know where the words came from- they were solid and bold and half a lie, but they made Timmy let go of the girl.

“And who are you?” He pointed the gun in your direction. You wanted to scream, but you didn’t.

“I’m (Y/N) Hotchner. W-we had art class together last year.” You hoped your stumble wasn’t too obvious.

“Yeah, and why does that matter? Why should I let you live? Why should I let any of you live?” He waved the gun around in the air, making some of the students shriek, but somehow you stayed calm even though you wanted to explode. 

“Y-your mom died in a car crash last week. But it wasn’t her fault. It was the other person who was driving drunk and it wasn’t fair that they got to live and she had to die,” you said.

“Why do you care?” He spat.

You reached deep down… really deep. “My mom died too. She was murdered by a serial killer. She deserved so much better, just like your mom did.”

Timmy paused, the gun in his hand was shaking but still pointed at you. From your view, you could see that through the glass there were officers moving into the school. No. Not just officers- they were wearing FBI vests. Help was almost there, you just had to stall.

“My parents got divorced too,” you said. “Your final project last year really spoke to me- your dad was away all the time and your mom got tired of it, even though they still loved each other.” That was a total lie- the guy was about as talented as Pollok, but you had to find something. “My parents were the same way.”

Now Timmy was crying. You could see behind him that agents were moving towards the library, but you were too focused on stalling Timmy that you weren’t focused on their faces.

“And I was at a boarding school when she died so I was alone- all alone, just like you, Timmy. My mom died and nobody was there to comfort me. My dad wasn’t with me, just like your dad isn’t here right now.”

He was so distracted by your words that he didn’t even notice that the library doors had opened behind him allowing Agent Morgan, Dr. Reid, and your dad to come in unnoticed.

“He- he didn’t even come for her funeral-” Timmy’s hand was getting weaker. He was crying harder. “I-I can’t reach him-”

“I know. I couldn’t reach my dad either since I was still in WISTEC. They couldn’t tell me anything about him until I got home. It’s not fair. I know it’s not fair. I care that it’s not fair.”

Timmy dropped the gun, crumbling to the ground in a fit of tears. Agent Morgan tackled him, pulling his hands behind his back while Dr. Reid disabled the firearm. Your dad ran straight to you, gripping you in a bone crushing hug and you sobbed into his chest.

He pulled you in tighter, stroking a hand down your hair. “It’s over, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. It’s over.”

“I worked the case, dad,” you managed to get out between your sobs. “I worked the case.”

[toxicanonymity]

Can you please write speakeasy!Joel full on fucking reader in front of people (and people are watching and commenting)

Lockdown

1k / joel miller x f!reader / joel master list

WARNINGS: Unsafe P in V, horny, desperate joel begging, established relationship, creampie, exhibitionism, forced voyeurism. 

You feel him harden against you and reflexively scoot your ass back without thinking about your surroundings.  He puts his mouth to your ear.   “Don’t start somethin’ ya can’t finish, baby.” 

That could be a problem.  You’re locked down in a one-room warehouse with about twenty other people while infected swarm the area.  Joel’s first instinct, as always, was to grab his gun off his back.  But a decision was made to hunker down.  Gunfire would only attract more of them.

He’s slumped against the wall and you’re between his legs.Ten minutes ago, he took off his belt because he thought it was hurting you and you should’ve known what would happen.  You turn your head and whisper, “Sorry.”  He only hardens more obscenely.  The familiar outline stretches up against his hip near his pocket. 

"Now look what ya did, baby." 

You take a deep breath as he subtly moves his pelvis, rubbing it against you.  Visually, it would be imperceptible to those in the room at this point.  But he has your whole body aching with need. 

“You gonna take care of this?” he asks as he continues.

“You know I can’t.”  Oh, how you wish you could.

"God damn, sugar." He pulls you back into him with a soft grunt. "Tryin' to kill me with this ass," he murmurs into your hair. It feels like he's trying to kill you with his voice all low and gravely, trying to be quiet. 

He isn't used to being turned down, as horny as you are for each other, but there's nowhere to do it.  It’s one big room with people all around it.  Boxes scattered here and there, but nothing that could conceal you.  No restroom. There's a nook that leads to a restroom and a closet but both are locked and no one there has the key. And all these people - they’re stuck in here with you.  No one can leave.

You feel his desperation as he pulls you into him. “We can’t, Joel,” you whisper. Fucking in public would be nothing new. But in a closed room where people can't leave?

He growls in a whisper. “We gotta, sweetheart.” 

People are having scattered conversations but mostly sitting around and it’s pretty quiet.  Two men are having a spirited discussion and a third tells them, "Shhhhh."

“Gimme some cover,” Joel says.  His hand comes between the two of you and unbuttons his jeans. Oh, God.  If he jacks off it's gonna be obvious to everyone, plus you'll be turned all the way on. He gathers your dress, pulling the back of it out from under you so your naked ass cheeks are against his jeans.  While he's at it, he slips a finger under your thong and snaps it playfully then slides his finger under it again and slides it down, un-wedging it from between your ass cheeks.  He takes a deep, horny breath. 

“Jesus,” the closest person whispers. Joel sighs and gives them an intimidating stare as he jostles between your bodies and takes out his rock-hard cock.  He lays it against your lower back, covers it with your dress, and a chill of arousal races down your body. He pulls you back into him and cups your breast as he rocks into you a little less discreetly. You squeeze his thigh. 

"Too much," you whisper. 

"Not enough, baby."

"Try to be still." He's still for about a minute then pushes himself against you with a soft, muffled groan that calls more attention.

"Hurts too much," he whispers. 

Someone whisper-yells, "Do you have to do that here?" Meanwhile some other pervert is palming his own cargo pants. You try to block it all out.

"Fuck, I gotta come, sugar. This is torture." He sounds genuinely in pain. 

"Then hurry up and be quiet." 

He quietly spits in his hand and wedges his hand in between you. His breaths are heavy as his hand moves and people pretend they aren't watching.   

"Sit on it, baby. It'll be faster." He breathes heavier and thrusts against you again. 

"No." You turn your head to tell him, "Everyone's staring already."

"You better look me in the eye when you're sayin' no."  

Your breath hitches. You look at him and see the utter agony on his face. It turns you on.  

"Fuck. cover yourself for a second." 

"Fuck yeah. Only take a minute"  

"But get a hold of yourself. We don't know these people." It's not the same as when you're in your own territory like the bar.  You glance around and a few people pretend they weren't watching. You try to pretend they're not there as you carefully get up and turn around facing Joel. He brings his legs together and you straddle him, spreading your skirt over both of you.  His face is so desperate you can almost, almost forget about the room full of people. He raises his knees behind you.

He holds his cock at attention under your skirt. "Sit on it, baby," he begs. He's panting. “Don’t gotta do nothin’ else.”  You slowly lower yourself, and as soon as you begin to take in his swollen tip, he takes hold of your hips and slides you down his length with a sigh. You try not to gasp too loud as his girth makes room for itself inside you. He looks up at the ceiling then back at you.

"God I love you," he whispers, then takes your face in his hands and kisses you passionately. 

Someone whispers, "what the hell?"  And someone else says "they're actually fucking."

You break the kiss self-consciously and you just look in each other's eyes as he gently rocks his pelvis and slightly bounces you on his cock. His arms wrap around you and you put your head in the crook of his neck.  Being full of him is your comfort zone. He’s right, it doesn’t take long until you get the tell tale signs that he’s going to come. His breath is ragged, his grunts are more frequent, though mercifully not as loud as usual.  He twitches inside you.  

“Not too loud,” you whisper.  He kisses you through his orgasm, moaning “Mmmmm,” slightly softer than usual.  You sit there on his cock for a long time, not wanting to move and draw attention.  You fall asleep there as he caresses your arms and your head stays buried in the crook of his neck. 

-

more of these antics on the joel master list - "for survival --> speakeasy" section.

Thank you so much for reading and engaging!!! you can follow @toxicfics for fic notifications and @toxicrecs for fic recs.

All Joel:@ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose  @fandomsfallnomore  @djarinxore @blackvelveteen1339   @manazo @wolvesandvampires  @taeslarityy  @str84pedro @lokanda  @kyloispunk  @filthfairy  @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles  @harriedandharassed  @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy  @cutesyscreenname  @weddingfairy  @pedropascal-whore  @spideysimpossiblegirl  @feministfanboi @gracieispunk @prettypartyfavor @am-3-thyst @babeincolor @milla-frenchy

[lets-try-some-writing]

The Grim Dark Archives: Warning to All Personnel

[In light of intel gathered from years of observation, all who interact with the alien lifeforms known as the Autobots are to follow the listed rules.]

══════════════════

Surviving Day to Day Interactions

Do not tell them your name. They will find out everything about you and those you love. A designation will be provided to you upon being assigned to the facility.

Never bring any personal accessories into the Autobot facilities. You won't get them back, and they may be used against you later.

Do not touch any equipment not explicitly labeled as being made by the organization. The alien tech does more harm than good to those without any ports to connect to it with.

Never stay at the facility overnight unless you have been confirmed as part of the security crew. Marcus was found dismembered after his attempt to stay behind for some nighttime cleaning.

Stay quiet as much as possible. They notice you less that way.

Refrain from standing out. Blend in with other agents. Otherwise they may take an interest in you.

Don't dye your hair bright red of any shade. Arcee will make you vanish.

Don't ask the Autobots any questions. You won't like the answer. Agent Fowler is the only one who has been properly trained to handle their responses.

Avoid being overly friendly with the Autobots. They will remember your kindness and they will attempt to repay it.

Do not accept gifts of any kind from anyone. Especially not other agents.

They are NOT agents. Do not trust them.

Stay out of the storage room. We haven't seen Frank in two weeks since he entered.

If you enjoy living, keep clear of the medical bay. You don't want to be caught there alone. Ever.

If there are any glowing blue substances, don't touch them. They like seeing if new hires will fall for it.

Proper Strange Occurrence Responses

The piles of clothes in the corner of the hangar are not to be touched. Bumblebee likes to collect them, particularly children's clothes.

If the lights start to flicker, leave the area immediately. We have a backup generator. If the power falters, it was intentional.

Blood stains are not to be acknowledged. If you don't' see it, the Autobots don't see you.

Never stay at the facility overnight. We won't be able to retrieve you once the place goes on lockdown.

If you end up trapped inside at night, run. You are too small for them to reach you more often than not.

Never try and use your communicator. They will pick up the signal and your location will be revealed.

Don't listen if they call for you. They may try to offer to help you out of the facility. You can never be sure if they will actually aid you or not.

Bumblebee is the only one you can trust if you are locked inside. He has been the only Autobot confirmed to never harm personnel in any serious manner.

Even still, don't trust him. He will attempt to invite you to stay in his room until morning. If you are persuasive enough in declining, he might take you to the security crew.

If you fail to convince him to take you to the security crew, only accept the offer to play human games.

Do not under ANY circumstances, accept the offer to play any game you don't know by heart.

Keep him occupied until morning and you will survive. The others won't bother you so long as you remain with him.

If Bumblebee is not at base, keep moving, never stay still for long.

Find the security office. There are blast doors. Jeff has been a night guard at the facility for almost four years without the Autobots being aware of him.

No we do not know how he does it. Don't question. Just know he will keep you safe until morning.

Food left out anywhere that is not in the supply room is not for your consumption. The more delicious it looks, the more likely they are to have set the trap.

If you hear 90's music, get the hell out of wherever you are. You don't want to be around Wheeljack when he turns on his music.

Maps are meaningless. If the layout of the inner parts of the facility change, you are going to have to find your way out without aid.

Strange sounds will occasionally follow you through the facility, sometimes sounding like laughter. Do not acknowledge it.

Friday is not a good day for you. Prime does things then that you do not want to see.

In the Event you meet an Autobot Privately

Don't accept any of the gifts they might offer. Your wellbeing is not their concern.

Do not answer any questions truthfully. Never outright lie, but offer nothing freely. They are less likely to kill you that way.

All Autobots enjoy a puzzle and can be stunned into allowing you to leave if you offer information that is particularly confusing to them.

Abuse this fact as much as you are able. Make up any lies you need to in order to get out of there.

Do not ever be caught alone with an Autobot again afterwards. They will not be happy that you fed them falsehoods.

We have specially trained agents who are educated in the proper way to ask questions by [Redacted] himself. You are not one of them. Don't even try.

If you meet him, Ratchet will try to force you to hold tools and vials for him under the guise of requiring assistance. Politely decline and walk away without looking back.

He may also attempt to request a scan from you. If you comply, there is nothing we can do to help you. The contract is clear.

Bumblebee will often ask those who meet him to play a game. He is the least malicious and will often accept if you decline.

If he insists you play, give him the children's toy that should come with your introduction packet. It should placate him. He likes model cars the most.

Prime will attempt to invite you speak to him over tea or in some other seemingly innocent fashion. Politely decline if you can.

If he remains still and does not walk away, offer him the card that should have come in your kit. Your life will be safeguarded if he is paid in information.

If you find yourself with Arcee, do NOT make eye contact. She will do everything in her power aside from physically manhandling you to get you to meet her gaze.

Keep your eyes down, walk away, and say nothing if she begins to threaten you. She won't do anything unless you look. at. her.

Bulkhead tries to avoid us as much as possible, but if you find yourself alone with him, be civil. Do not mention anything related to combat or machinery. Keep everything domestic.

He will remain civil as long as you do. However if you mention any sort of "breakdown" he will interrogate you and you will promptly be found dead in a ditch a month later.

As a general rule, assume your life is over if you end up in a room with Wheeljack. He is one of the few who does not care for blending in.

If you don't end up vanishing, you will be lucky if all you walk away with is a broken limb. We have no way to ward him off yet.

If you are in a room with more than one Autobot, pit them against each other through distraction and run for your life. They can't get you in the vents.

══════════════════

[These are all the warnings that have been compiled for the time being. More may be added later, but for now, this are the rules that have been created for all personnel.

Agent Witwicky signing off.]

[blueiscoool]

A 2,000-Year-old Iron Age Gold Treasure Found in Wales

Gold coins dating back more than 2,000 years have been found by metal detectorists in Wales, making them the first hoard of Iron Age gold coins to have been discovered in the country.

The 15 coins, which have been declared treasure, are known as staters. They were found the Welsh island of Anglesey, off the northwest coast of the country’s mainland.

Struck between 60 BC and 20 BC, the coins belonged to the Corieltavi tribe, who at the time inhabited the geographical area that is now England’s East Midlands, according to a National Museum Wales press release.

The precious metals were unearthed by three metal detectorists in a field between July 2021 and March 2022.

Lloyd Roberts, who said he has been a metal detectorist for more than 14 years, found the first coin.

“Finding a gold stater was always number one on my wish list,” he said in the release, adding: “That one coin alone would have made my year, but I went on to find another on my next signal.”

Roberts said that his friend, Peter Cockton, found the next three. They then contacted the Portable Antiquities Scheme, an organization which records such historical and archaeological finds.

Tim Watson, who said he only began metal detecting following encouragement from his father during lockdown, found the sixth.

“I rushed home to show my wife and we were both in awe of this coin, which was like nothing else I had found, immaculately preserved with such unusual stylised images,” Watson said in the release.

Watson said his enthusiasm led him to upgrade his metal detector and he found the remaining nine coins in the following weeks.

‘Rich archaeological landscape’

The gold coins’ elaborate design derives from those of Philip II, who ruled the ancient kingdom of Macedonia from 359 BC to 336 BC. The heads side of the coins shows the mythological deity Apollo’s wreath and hair, while the tails side shows a triangular-headed horse surrounded by symbols.

The coins were likely not used for everyday transactions, except potentially for some high-value purchases, according to the release. Instead, the staters are thought to have been used as gifts between the elites to secure alliances or show loyalty.

Another option is that the Corieltavi tribe used them to form part of an exchange for copper, which there were sources of in various parts of the island.

The staters could also have been used as “offerings to the gods” to fulfill a vow, according to National Museum Wales. Other archaeological finds from Anglesey, as well as Roman sources referring to the island that feature pagan priests, suggest the area was an important religious center at the time.

Gwynedd Archaeological Trust visited the site in September 2021 to see if there were any clues as to why the coins were buried there.

“This hoard is a fantastic example of the rich archaeological landscape that exists in North-West Wales,” said Sean Derby, Historic Environment Record archaeologist at Gwynedd Archaeological Trust. “While the immediate vicinity of the find did not yield any clues as to the find’s origin, the findspot lies in an area of known prehistoric and early Roman activity and helps increase our understanding of this region.”

Welsh museum Oriel Môn is looking to acquire the coins and put them on public display.

By Amarachi Orie.

[aintgonnatakethis]

Writing Interview Tag!

Big thanks to @moltenwrites for the tag! I've seen this going around and was hoping to be tagged at some point. *rubs hands together* There'll be a readmore at the bottom with the templates for both desktop and mobile.

About me

When did you start writing?

Very young, around 5-6. I remember there was homework where the teacher gave everyone a list of words and asked us to write a sentence with each word. I would turn in a paragraph for each instead 😂 When I was 14 I was writing a lot of Doctor Who fic on FFnet (I can't believe that was 16 years ago 💀) and during the lockdown I started writing again for something to do.

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

I don't think so? Sorry, that's a really unsatisfying answer, I know. It's like when you're asked what your favourite book is and you instantly forget every book you've ever read 😂

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

Is this gonna be weird? Probably. Am I gonna fight through the anxiety anyway? Sure, you betcha! @septembriseur is one of the best writers I have ever had the pleasure of reading. Your Telford is second to none. Thank you.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

Just sitting in my bed cradling my laptop. Despite only being 3 and a half years old it's got a whole host of things wrong with it, the most problematic being a loose connection somewhere inside the charging port. To be able to charge I have to sit in a very specific position and stay still, with a metal water bottle braced against the charging cable to keep it pushed in, another cable tied around it with an elastic band and hooked over the opposite side of the laptop. It's... honestly not the best lol. But it's a gaming laptop so getting it fixed would probably be expensive and I just don't have the money.

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Am I allowed to say drugs? 😂 I'm prescribed ADHD meds and Pregabalin for anxiety, and they both help me focus enough to get words down on the page. I'd be pretty screwed without them tbh. I had an appointment with a doctor today and am getting an instant release ADHD medication added to my prescription as the extended release wears off by mid-to-late afternoon, so maybe I'll be able to get another daily writing session in when I take that!

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?

Hn. I want to say not really, but it must have influenced me in some way, right? Kids are sponges and will soak up and mimic the behaviours of the adults around them, and often people will reach adulthood with opinions and ideas that they don't even realise were created by an outside influence.

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?

QUEER! And no, it doesn't surprise me at all. 😂 I love writing about self-discovery, characters figuring out they can grow outside of the box society has built for them.

Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

So, uh, I'm just gonna link y'all here, where I ramble on about David Telford from Stargate Universe for fucking ages. He's in my brain spinning plates as we speak. (He never stops.)

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

Well, in real life I wouldn't want to be friends with anyone in the military. While the US military is a special interest of mine because of Stargate, I am very aware that these characters are not realistic when compared to their real life counterparts. Realism in this area is one reason my favourite of the series is Universe, but even then these men aren't... Well, let's just say that - just like in politics - you don't get far in the military if you're a good person.

Which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?

😬😬😬 I mean, the fact they're dislikeable is part of the draw, ya know? I think irl-Young would suck absolute balls. 😂

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

Not super applicable as I'm a solely fandom writer, but the parts of the characters we're not given by the show come to me as I write, like puzzle pieces slotting into place. A good back-and-forth conversation is another excellent way to dig deep into them.

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

QUEER! But being serious, I've given both Everett Young (SGU) and John Sheppard (SGA) intrusive thoughts...

My writing

What’s your reason for writing?

Escapism. Creativity. The characters are in my head screaming at me.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

Ooh, the long back-and-forth conversations! I'm here to talk endlessly about these little fucking blorbos and I will ramble about them to anyone!

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Taking this very seriously: a man. I know that fandom is typically a woman-dominated area and I've met quite a few other trans people through Stargate, but yeah. I know there are cultural differences with what are generally considered gender neutral terms around the world, but I do not want to ever be referred to as a girl or with woman-coded terms. I've had to fight hard to be able to be myself: man, dude, bro, there are a lot of choices.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Hmm... consistency? I set the New Year's resolution to write something every day in 2022. That year I missed 2 and half weeks because I had top surgery and while beforehand I thought 'awesome, I'll have plenty of time to write!' it turned out that recent wounds almost in my armpits makes it quite painful to move my arms... 🤔 In 2023 I wrote every day and so far I've kept that up in 2024. It's not always a lot of words, but it's always something.

What have you been told is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

Characterisation. I've been told I've got my SGU boys (Telford, Young, and Rush) down to a tee.

How do you feel about your own writing?

There's a cycle where I look back at stuff I've written and compare it to what I'm currently writing and think 'this new stuff isn't as good', but in 3 months the stuff I'm currently writing will be what I think is good so... There are pieces I'm especially proud of, of course. If you'd allow me to plug for a moment, I think a memory, a distant echo is one of the best things I've ever written. Mind the tags though.

If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?

Yeah sure. I write primarily for myself so I don't see any reason why I'd stop. I wouldn't live long though lmao

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

First point of contact has to be with me, always. If something doesn't resonate with me, I can't write it. Forcing things is going to make writing unenjoyable and for me it's one of the most joyous things I do and I want to keep it that way. That said, if there's specific interest in a certain idea I have, that of course does motivate me. Feedback is the nectar of writers!

Tagging: @fortunatetragedy @bagheerita @frostysfrenzy @adriankyte-writes @frostedlemonwriter

@gioiaalbanoart @septembriseur @authorcoledipalo @anonmadsci @the-golden-comet + OPEN

@wolgerrswraith @chaniis-atlantis

About me

When did you start writing?

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?

Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

Which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

How do you picture your characters?

My writing

What’s your reason for writing?

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Have you been told is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

How do you feel about your own writing?

If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

About meWhen did you start writing?Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?can you tell me a bit about your writing space? What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?Characters: would you please tell me about your current favorite character? Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters? Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?How do you picture your characters? My writing: what’s your reason for writing?Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating? How do you want to be thought about by your readers?What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?have you been told is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?How do you feel about your own writing?If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This 1900 Craftsman is so cute. Look at the red shutters and door. Plus, there’s a glockenspiel on the porch- how sweet is that? It’s in Libby, Montana, has 4bd. 3ba. and is listed for $475K.

Cozy living room. Love the light brick fireplace and built-ins. It has the beamed ceilings and posts, like a Craftsman typically has.

Look at the floor. Sweet.

That’s a built-in china cabinet in the dining room.

You can see that the wood is original, but this home has been lived-in so it needs at least a good cleaning and polish. 

Love the kitchen- no ridiculous remodeling. Look at the floor. 

Cute vintage bath.

Was it b/c of the lockdown that everyone has a home office? 

The upstairs hallway is large enough to hold a dresser. By the dirty handprints on the attic door, it looks like they go up there a lot. 

They’ve got the bigger bd. as an office and someone’s squeezed into this tiny bd.

This must be the main bd.

The remodeled baths aren’t very imaginative.

The wood really needs some work.

The bds. aren’t exceptionally large, but that’s how Craftsman homes were built.

Here’s a small shower room.

The basement looks like someone may have set up a bedroom at one time. 

There’s a large covered deck on the back.

Big 2 car garage. There area on the side is very large. Looks like they have a business in here.

Nice yard.

There must be a business in that red garage, b/c their cars are in this garage behind the house. It’s a large property.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/719-Louisiana-Ave-Libby-MT-59923/78173569_zpid/

[boots-with-the-fur-club]

Chapter 2 of These Are Not Our Masks!

@daboyau

@that-0n3-shr00mi3-guy

@iobsesswaytoomuch

@sady-is-secretly-an-alchemist

@dluebirb

Let me know if anyone wants to be added to the tag list! And please let me know if I forgot someone!

Donnie and Mikey land on top of the skate ramp of their lair with a thump. Donnie wants to think about the logic of Leo sending them to this area of all places but the reality of the situation sinks in.

Half of them are missing.

The Foot probably have Raph and Leo.

He drops the pieces of his tech bō and hits his fist on the ground.

“All I needed was time! I might have been able to get us all out!”

Mikey grips his shoulder.

“Donnie! We have to get dad and April! Now! We have to go help them!”

Donnie takes a quick breath then nods and slides down the ramp with him. They both run as fast as possible to where their father is sleeping on his recliner.

Mikey tearfully shakes him.

“Dad! They took them!”

Splinter snorts awake, only opening one eye before closing it again.

“Learn to share boys, don’t take each other’s things….”

Donnie stands in front of him, tense hands at his sides in fists.

“Raph and Leo are gone!”

Splinter jumps out of his seat.

“What!? Where!? How!?”

Mikey starts rambling so fast that neither of them can understand them.

Donnie places his hand over his mouth.

“Raph was possessed by a mask and The Foot showed up! Leo got us to safety but they probably took the both of them!”

Mikey moves the hand, holding it close.

“We need to get them back!”

Splinter’s mind races a mile a minute.

“Let April know, we’re going to need her help.”

Donnie quickly texts an SOS message for her to meet them at the lair. He’s not sure how calling her would go.

She might start trying to find them by herself and he can’t let her get taken too.

“Done. I’m grabbing some things from my lab in the meantime.”

Mikey squeezes his hand again.

“Can I come with you too?”

Donnie glances at Splinter who he swears is greying more than ever at the moment despite it not being scientifically possible to happen so fast.

“Stay here with father. I won’t take long.

Mikey slowly let’s go of his hand hugs Splinter tightly instead.

Splinter hugs back just as tight.

Donnie leaves the two to head towards his lab.

Once he gets there, he stares at the hologram framed photos he keeps on the wall.

He remembers why they’re there.

Before he had gotten better at keeping his lab on lockdown, Raph went inside to look for a weight Donnie had borrowed to use for an invention.

That’s how Donnie walked in on Raph absolutely bawling his eyes out over a photo of him kept in a desk drawer.

That’s also how he came across both Mikey and Leo during the next couple of days after that pretending they weren’t looking for photos of themselves as well.

The obvious decision was having photos of all of them that could switch out daily so that no one would feel he was picking favorites.

Purely logical, it’s not like his mysterious bad boy self cared about the emotions behind it.

He also definitely never checked the footage from the security camera in the lab to see his brothers come look at the photos.

His finger gingerly touches the photo of Raph and Leo play wrestling.

It was a far cry from the fight that happened earlier.

“It figures that it was the two of you that were taken…..I’m going to get you back as quickly as possible and never let you forget I did. How dare you force me to take over responsibility this way?”

“Dude, you’re totally like just talking to yourself right now.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. comments as he flies over.

“You’re acting like that’s a rare occurrence. I need you to gather up as much as my tech as you can and power up the tracker monitor.”

“Oh no, are our bros missing?”

Donnie sighs.

“Yes. Raph and Leo. Most likely kidnapped.”

“I’ll get right on it. Leo was supposed to sneak me out to play basketball, he needs to come back.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. goes to do as he’s been asked.

Donnie knows he should be mad that Leo was going to go behind his shell but honestly he finds it nice that his brothers treat S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. like a nephew in a similar way that he treats him like a son.

He sighs.

It’s annoying to be so easily swayed by how much he loves his brothers sometimes.

Of course it was never too often because he will shove someone into a wall for a pizza slice if need be but it still happens.

Eventually, his robotic son comes back with the battle shell containing all his weaponry and a bag filled with smaller items he’s been tinkering with.

He’s never, ever going to admit that they’re new gifts he made because he felt guilty about the original ones.

Donnie also gets handed the tracker tablet and quickly sets it up.

“Both of them are in Foot headquarters. Problematic, but at least it’s a location we’re already aware of. Help me take everything to father and Mikey.”

The two of them begin making their way back.

Donnie pauses when he sees the symbols representing Raph and Leo blink away. He panics, knowing that the trackers are under their skin so the only way they could be removed would be painful.

Panic fades into confusion when they appear again in a different location.

The lair.

Did they manage to get away?

He hears screaming coming from where he left Mikey and Splinter.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. and Donnie heavily pick up the pace to their destination.

They get there just in time to see Raph and Leo attacking their brother and father.

Donnie fills with fear as he sees that Leo is sporting a mask now too, bringing along two katanas instead of his usual, singular odachi.

These katanas have an unnatural green glow radiating off them and seem freshly sharpened.

Leo himself has all his muscles tensed up as if he’s been extremely deliberate with every movement he’s choosing. It’s a far cry from the typical, more loose and relaxed stance he had before that always gave the false impression of him being unprepared.

“Mikey! Mikey! Want to hear a joke? Come on, you want to! I know you do!” He says in almost a frenzy.

Mikey dodges several jabs from the katanas.

“Leo, you can tell one after you tell me what happened!”

“It’s the best joke you’ll ever hear! Let me tell it! Mikey!”

“Leo! Stop!”

Donnie feels an odd sense of familiarity wash over him as he realize he knows exactly what his brother is doing.

One of Leo’s most obviously qualities is how much he talks. He likes hearing the sound of his own voice. In the past, his distracting Splinter is what allowed them to take snacks from the kitchen without alerting their father.

Now this skill is being used against family again in a much more directly harmful way.

“Watch out! He just the distraction!” Donnie warns too late.

His little brother gets pummeled into the ground by Raph who was just waiting for an opportunity. He lifts him up with just one hand and slams him against the floor hard enough to leave a crack on it.

“Mikey!” Donnie and Splinter shout in unison.

He quickly retracts into his shell to avoid more damage being done.

Donnie reaches into the bag and tosses small, colorful balls at Raph explodes powder all across his face.

It hurts him to do this.

Not because he’s hitting his brother, they do that all the time during pranks and teasing like most brothers do.

It’s because he made these for battle purposes. It’s because he made these with Mikey in mind. It’s because they were all supposed to be able to use them together, not against each other in this way.

Raph growls and hisses as he tries to get the powder out of his eyes. He has difficulty because of the mask around them.

Splinter pulls Mikey shell to safety. It’s pressed close against his chest. He can’t believe this is happening.

Maybe if he had just trained them properly earlier in their lives this wouldn’t have happened. If he just prepared them, remembered what his grandpa tried so hard to teach him, they would know the dangers he placed in the back of his mind.

“Orange! Are you okay!?”

Mikey pokes his head out.

“I am! We need to worry about them!”

Splinter sighs in relief and hands him to Donnie.

“Take care of your brother. I will handle Blue and Red.”

Donnie holds onto Mikey tightly.

“Father, be careful.”

Splinter gently pats his arm and takes a step towards his other sons.

Leo cocks his head, carefully watching him approach. His limbs are twitchy. He taps his katana tips on the ground.

It’s unsure if it’s because he’s ready to strike or he’s still trying to be a distraction.

Raph finally recovers from the powder and opens his eyes. They’re red and teary, but the pupils are slit like an animal ready to strike.

Splinter holds steady.

He’s raised them since the moment they gained consciousness. Despite the moments where getting up was too much to bare, he knew his boys well. He had to in order to help them with their more animalistic tendencies.

Splinter starts reaching his hand out.

Raph opens up his jaw wide, baring his teeth. His snaggle tooth is the most prominent one.

“Red. My sweet boy. I know you are stressed, and you may be scared. Your father is here. I know you don’t wish to hurt me. You just don’t want to be hurt yourself. Please, let me protect you.” Splinter keeps reaching out.

Raph hisses and raises his arm up in warning. Leo bounces from foot to foot in anticipation at the fight to come.

Splinter place his hand over Raph’s and presses their foreheads together.

“I love you.”

Raph’s jaw slowly closes.

He starts whining loudly in a sad way.

“I….I….hurt Mikey. I was gonna hurt you.”

“Shh shh, Orange is fine and you didn’t hurt me. You listened to me. I’m so proud of you.”

Raph smiles softly.

Splinter smiles back.

Leo kicks Splinter in the side, sending him to the floor.

“Dumb and boring! You made me stand too long! Atlas, you know you’re only good for being a beast, Baron Draxum’s attack dog. You can’t kill one measly rat!?”

Raph roars at him.

Leo slams the hilt of his katana into Raph’s skull.

Raph tackles him.

They begin wrestling around.

Leo had always been the one Raph chose to play wrestle with. Raph always gave not so believable excuses for it but Donnie and Mikey knew the real reason.

He was afraid of hurting them.

Leo was different. He took prank hits like a champ. He was the last one after Raph to ever have to go to their dad crying about a a real injury.

He of course would be dramatic about things that weren’t really anything, but not ever actual injuries. Those were hidden behind his smile and a wave of his hand.

This wrestling is vicious.

They trade blows back and forth without a trace of hesitation. Leo’s face remains unbruised because his mask covers basically all of it, but his body is being bruised up.

Raph’s mask is another story so Leo punches and scratches with no remorse. It’s actually the opposite, like he’s enjoying it.

Mikey pops the rest of his limbs out and pushes himself away from Donnie’s grasp. He rushes towards his brothers.

“Mikey! No!” Donnie reaches out, but he’s too fast.

Mikey somehow manages to pull them both apart and away from each other. He has to hold Raph back from going after Leo again.

Leo slides back and hunches forward to go after the two of them.

“Blue! Stop! Those are your brothers!” Splinter shouts.

“They can take a hit! Maybe that’s why I should go a little further.” Leo cackles as he raises one of the katanas.

Raph starts getting harder for Mikey to hold back. Splinter visibly wracks his brain for a way to get through to him before things get bad again.

The click and hiss of Donnie releasing his battle shell causes everyone to look his way. Leo’s body language shows that he’s surprised by this move.

“You want us vulnerable? I’m the most vulnerable you can get and you know it.” Donnie starts walking forward.

Leo doesn’t move at first, but takes a step back when Donnie gets close.

“What’s wrong? Come on, you’ve got all the chance in the world right now Leo. I’m right here.” Donnie gets even closer.

Leo grips his katanas tightly.

“I’ll stab you straight through.”

Donnie turns his shell to him, hoping he doesn’t notice how badly his arms shake as he holds them out.

“Take your shot then! Or….ugh….a….stab at it? I can’t believe I just said that….”

Leo freezes.

Donnie glances back at him, waiting with baited breath for something to happen. Everyone else is in a similar state.

Leo’s shoulders start jerking a bit. The others worry it’s not working and that Donnie is about to be turned into a turtlekabob.

Then, Leo finally starts doubling over in laughter.

“A stab at it! That is so good!”

Donnie finally sighs in relief. That was a huge gamble. He’s proud that he was right about what Leo could never resist.

“Welcome back, my son. Let’s work on getting those masks off you both.” Splinter smiles.

“What is the meaning of this!?” Draxum’s voice booms from behind them all.

Things are still clearly far from over.

[feminismisstillahatemovement]

A few years ago, during one of California’s steadily worsening wildfire seasons, Nat Friedman’s family home burned down. A few months after that, Friedman was in Covid-19 lockdown in the Bay Area, both freaked out and bored. Like many a middle-aged dad, he turned for healing and guidance to ancient Rome. While some of us were watching Tiger King and playing with our kids’ Legos, he read books about the empire and helped his daughter make paper models of Roman villas. Instead of sourdough, he learned to bake Panis Quadratus, a Roman loaf pictured in some of the frescoes found in Pompeii. During sleepless pandemic nights, he spent hours trawling the internet for more Rome stuff. That’s how he arrived at the Herculaneum papyri, a fork in the road that led him toward further obsession. He recalls exclaiming: “How the hell has no one ever told me about this?”

The Herculaneum papyri are a collection of scrolls whose status among classicists approaches the mythical. The scrolls were buried inside an Italian countryside villa by the same volcanic eruption in 79 A.D. that froze Pompeii in time. To date, only about 800 have been recovered from the small portion of the villa that’s been excavated. But it’s thought that the villa, which historians believe belonged to Julius Caesar’s prosperous father-in-law, had a huge library that could contain thousands or even tens of thousands more. Such a haul would represent the largest collection of ancient texts ever discovered, and the conventional wisdom among scholars is that it would multiply our supply of ancient Greek and Roman poetry, plays and philosophy by manyfold. High on their wish lists are works by the likes of Aeschylus, Sappho and Sophocles, but some say it’s easy to imagine fresh revelations about the earliest years of Christianity.

“Some of these texts could completely rewrite the history of key periods of the ancient world,” says Robert Fowler, a classicist and the chair of the Herculaneum Society, a charity that tries to raise awareness of the scrolls and the villa site. “This is the society from which the modern Western world is descended.”

The reason we don’t know exactly what’s in the Herculaneum papyri is, y’know, volcano. The scrolls were preserved by the voluminous amount of superhot mud and debris that surrounded them, but the knock-on effects of Mount Vesuvius charred them beyond recognition. The ones that have been excavated look like leftover logs in a doused campfire. People have spent hundreds of years trying to unroll them—sometimes carefully, sometimes not. And the scrolls are brittle. Even the most meticulous attempts at unrolling have tended to end badly, with them crumbling into ashy pieces.

In recent years, efforts have been made to create high-resolution, 3D scans of the scrolls’ interiors, the idea being to unspool them virtually. This work, though, has often been more tantalizing than revelatory. Scholars have been able to glimpse only snippets of the scrolls’ innards and hints of ink on the papyrus. Some experts have sworn they could see letters in the scans, but consensus proved elusive, and scanning the entire cache is logistically difficult and prohibitively expensive for all but the deepest-pocketed patrons. Anything on the order of words or paragraphs has long remained a mystery.

But Friedman wasn’t your average Rome-loving dad. He was the chief executive officer of GitHub Inc., the massive software development platform that Microsoft Corp. acquired in 2018. Within GitHub, Friedman had been developing one of the first coding assistants powered by artificial intelligence, and he’d seen the rising power of AI firsthand. He had a hunch that AI algorithms might be able to find patterns in the scroll images that humans had missed.

After studying the problem for some time and ingratiating himself with the classics community, Friedman, who’s left GitHub to become an AI-focused investor, decided to start a contest. Last year he launched the Vesuvius Challenge, offering $1 million in prizes to people who could develop AI software capable of reading four passages from a single scroll. “Maybe there was obvious stuff no one had tried,” he recalls thinking. “My life has validated this notion again and again.”

As the months ticked by, it became clear that Friedman’s hunch was a good one. Contestants from around the world, many of them twentysomethings with computer science backgrounds, developed new techniques for taking the 3D scans and flattening them into more readable sheets. Some appeared to find letters, then words. They swapped messages about their work and progress on a Discord chat, as the often much older classicists sometimes looked on in hopeful awe and sometimes slagged off the amateur historians.

On Feb. 5, Friedman and his academic partner Brent Seales, a computer science professor and scroll expert, plan to reveal that a group of contestants has delivered transcriptions of many more than four passages from one of the scrolls. While it’s early to draw any sweeping conclusions from this bit of work, Friedman says he’s confident that the same techniques will deliver far more of the scrolls’ contents. “My goal,” he says, “is to unlock all of them.”

Before Mount Vesuvius erupted, the town of Herculaneum sat at the edge of the Gulf of Naples, the sort of getaway wealthy Romans used to relax and think. Unlike Pompeii, which took a direct hit from the Vesuvian lava flow, Herculaneum was buried gradually by waves of ash, pumice and gases. Although the process was anything but gentle, most inhabitants had time to escape, and much of the town was left intact under the hardening igneous rock. Farmers first rediscovered the town in the 18th century, when some well-diggers found marble statues in the ground. In 1750 one of them collided with the marble floor of the villa thought to belong to Caesar’s father-in-law, Senator Lucius Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus, known to historians today as Piso.

During this time, the first excavators who dug tunnels into the villa to map it were mostly after more obviously valuable artifacts, like the statues, paintings and recognizable household objects. Initially, people who ran across the scrolls, some of which were scattered across the colorful floor mosaics, thought they were just logs and threw them on a fire. Eventually, though, somebody noticed the logs were often found in what appeared to be libraries or reading rooms, and realized they were burnt papyrus. Anyone who tried to open one, however, found it crumbling in their hands.

Terrible things happened to the scrolls in the many decades that followed. The scientif-ish attempts to loosen the pages included pouring mercury on them (don’t do that) and wafting a combination of gases over them (ditto). Some of the scrolls have been sliced in half, scooped out and generally abused in ways that still make historians weep. The person who came the closest in this period was Antonio Piaggio, a priest. In the late 1700s he built a wooden rack that pulled silken threads attached to the edge of the scrolls and could be adjusted with a simple mechanism to unfurl the document ever so gently, at a rate of 1 inch per day. Improbably, it sort of worked; the contraption opened some scrolls, though it tended to damage them or outright tear them into pieces. In later centuries, teams organized by other European powers, including one assembled by Napoleon, pieced together torn bits of mostly illegible text here and there.

Today the villa remains mostly buried, unexcavated and off-limits even to the experts. Most of what’s been found there and proven legible has been attributed to Philodemus, an Epicurean philosopher and poet, leading historians to hope there’s a much bigger main library buried elsewhere on-site. A wealthy, educated man like Piso would have had the classics of the day along with more modern works of history, law and philosophy, the thinking goes. “I do believe there’s a much bigger library there,” says Richard Janko, a University of Michigan classical studies professor who’s spent painstaking hours assembling scroll fragments by hand, like a jigsaw puzzle. “I see no reason to think it should not still be there and preserved in the same way.” Even an ordinary citizen from that time could have collections of tens of thousands of scrolls, Janko says. Piso is known to have corresponded often with the Roman statesman Cicero, and the apostle Paul had passed through the region a couple of decades before Vesuvius erupted. There could be writings tied to his visit that comment on Jesus and Christianity. “We have about 800 scrolls from the villa today,” Janko says. “There could be thousands or tens of thousands more.”

In the modern era, the great pioneer of the scrolls is Brent Seales, a computer science professor at the University of Kentucky. For the past 20 years he’s used advanced medical imaging technology designed for CT scans and ultrasounds to analyze unreadable old texts. For most of that time he’s made the Herculaneum papyri his primary quest. “I had to,” he says. “No one else was working on it, and no one really thought it was even possible.”

Progress was slow. Seales built software that could theoretically take the scans of a coiled scroll and unroll it virtually, but it wasn’t prepared to handle a real Herculaneum scroll when he put it to the test in 2009. “The complexity of what we saw broke all of my software,” he says. “The layers inside the scroll were not uniform. They were all tangled and mashed together, and my software could not follow them reliably.”

By 2016 he and his students had managed to read the Ein Gedi scroll, a charred ancient Hebrew text, by programming their specialized software to detect changes in density between the burnt manuscript and the burnt ink layered onto it. The software made the letters light up against a darker background. Seales’ team had high hopes to apply this technique to the Herculaneum papyri, but those were written with a different, carbon-based ink that their imaging gear couldn’t illuminate in the same way.

Over the past few years, Seales has begun experimenting with AI. He and his team have scanned the scrolls with more powerful imaging machines, examined portions of the papyrus where ink was visible and trained algorithms on what those patterns looked like. The hope was that the AI would start picking up on details that the human eye missed and could apply what it learned to more obfuscated scroll chunks. This approach proved fruitful, though it remained a battle of inches. Seales’ technology uncovered bits and pieces of the scrolls, but they were mostly unreadable. He needed another breakthrough.

Friedman set up Google alerts for Seales and the papyri in 2020, while still early in his Rome obsession. After a year passed with no news, he started watching YouTube videos of Seales discussing the underlying challenges. Among other things, he needed money. By 2022, Friedman was convinced he could help. He invited Seales out to California for an event where Silicon Valley types get together and share big ideas. Seales gave a short presentation on the scrolls to the group, but no one bit. “I felt very, very guilty about this and embarrassed because he’d come out to California, and California had failed him,” Friedman says.

On a whim, Friedman proposed the idea of a contest to Seales. He said he’d put up some of his own money to fund it, and his investing partner Daniel Gross offered to match it.

Seales says he was mindful of the trade-offs. The Herculaneum papyri had turned into his life’s work, and he wanted to be the one to decode them. More than a few of his students had also poured time and energy into the project and planned to publish papers about their efforts. Now, suddenly, a couple of rich guys from Silicon Valley were barging into their territory and suggesting that internet randos could deliver the breakthroughs that had eluded the experts.

More than glory, though, Seales really just hoped the scrolls would be read, and he agreed to hear Friedman out and help design the AI contest. They kicked off the Vesuvius Challenge last year on the Ides of March. Friedman announced the contest on the platform we fondly remember as Twitter, and many of his tech friends agreed to pledge their money toward the effort while a cohort of budding papyrologists began to dig into the task at hand. After a couple of days, Friedman had amassed enough money to offer $1 million in prizes, along with some extra money to throw at some of the more time-intensive basics.

Friedman hired people online to gather the existing scroll imagery, catalog it and create software tools that made it easier to chop the scrolls into segments and to flatten the images out into something that was readable on a computer screen. After finding a handful of people who were particularly good at this, he made them full members of his scroll contest team, paying them $40 an hour. His hobby was turning into a lifestyle.

The initial splash of attention helped open new doors. Seales had lobbied Italian and British collectors for years to scan his first scrolls. Suddenly the Italians were now offering up two new scrolls for scanning to provide more AI training data. With Friedman’s backing, a team set to work building precision-fitting, 3D-printed cases to protect the new scrolls on their private jet flight from Italy to a particle accelerator in England. There they were scanned for three days straight at a cost of about $70,000.

Seeing the imaging process in action drives home both the magic and difficulty inherent in this quest. One of the scroll remnants placed in the scanner, for example, wasn’t much bigger than a fat finger. It was peppered by high-energy X-rays, much like a human going through a CT scan, except the resulting images were delivered in extremely high resolution. (For the real nerds: about 8 micrometers.) These images were virtually carved into a mass of tiny slices too numerous for a person to count. Along each slice, the scanner picked up infinitesimal changes in density and thickness. Software was then used to unroll and flatten out the slices, and the resulting images looked recognizably like sheets of papyrus, the writing on them hidden.

The files generated by this process are so large and difficult to deal with on a regular computer that Friedman couldn’t throw a whole scroll at most would-be contest winners. To be eligible for the $700,000 grand prize, contestants would have until the end of 2023 to read just four passages of at least 140 characters of contiguous text. Along the way, smaller prizes ranging from $1,000 to $100,000 would be awarded for various milestones, such as the first to read letters in a scroll or to build software tools capable of smoothing the image processing. With a nod to his open-source roots, Friedman insisted these prizes could be won only if the contestants agreed to show the world how they did it.

Luke Farritor was hooked from the start. Farritor—a bouncy 22-year-old Nebraskan undergraduate who often exclaims, “Oh, my goodness!”—heard Friedman describe the contest on a podcast in March. “I think there’s a 50% chance that someone will encounter this opportunity, get the data and get nerd-sniped by it, and we’ll solve it this year,” Friedman said on the show. Farritor thought, “That could be me.”

The early months were a slog of splotchy images. Then Casey Handmer, an Australian mathematician, physicist and polymath, scored a point for humankind by beating the computers to the first major breakthrough. Handmer took a few stabs at writing scroll-reading code, but he soon concluded he might have better luck if he just stared at the images for a really long time. Eventually he began to notice what he and the other contestants have come to call “crackle,” a faint pattern of cracks and lines on the page that resembles what you might see in the mud of a dried-out lakebed. To Handmer’s eyes, the crackle seemed to have the shape of Greek letters and the blobs and strokes that accompany handwritten ink. He says he believes it to be dried-out ink that’s lifted up from the surface of the page.

The crackle discovery led Handmer to try identifying clips of letters in one scroll image. In the spirit of the contest, he posted his findings to the Vesuvius Challenge’s Discord channel in June. At the time, Farritor was a summer intern at SpaceX. He was in the break room sipping a Diet Coke when he saw the post, and his initial disbelief didn’t last long. Over the next month he began hunting for crackle in the other image files: one letter here, another couple there. Most of the letters were invisible to the human eye, but 1% or 2% had the crackle. Armed with those few letters, he trained a model to recognize hidden ink, revealing a few more letters. Then Farritor added those letters to the model’s training data and ran it again and again and again. The model starts with something only a human can see—the crackle pattern—then learns to see ink we can’t.

Unlike today’s large-language AI models, which gobble up data, Farritor’s model was able to get by with crumbs. For each 64-pixel-by-64-pixel square of the image, it was merely asking, is there ink here or not? And it helped that the output was known: Greek letters, squared along the right angles of the cross-hatched papyrus fibers.

In early August, Farritor received an opportunity to put his software to the test. He’d returned to Nebraska to finish out the summer and found himself at a house party with friends when a new, crackle-rich image popped up in the contest’s Discord channel. As the people around him danced and drank, Farritor hopped on his phone, connected remotely to his dorm computer, threw the image into his machine-learning system, then put his phone away. “An hour later, I drive all my drunk friends home, and then I’m walking out of the parking garage, and I take my phone out not expecting to see anything,” he says. “But when I open it up, there’s three Greek letters on the screen.”

Around 2 a.m., Farritor texted his mom and then Friedman and the other contestants about what he’d found, fighting back tears of joy. “That was the moment where I was like, ‘Oh, my goodness, this is actually going to work. We’re going to read the scrolls.’”

Soon enough, Farritor found 10 letters and won $40,000 for one of the contest’s progress prizes. The classicists reviewed his work and said he’d found the Greek word for “purple.”

Farritor continued to train his machine-learning model on crackle data and to post his progress on Discord and Twitter. The discoveries he and Handmer made also set off a new wave of enthusiasm among contestants, and some began to employ similar techniques. In the latter part of 2023, Farritor formed an alliance with two other contestants, Youssef Nader and Julian Schilliger, in which they agreed to combine their technology and share any prize money.

In the end, the Vesuvius Challenge received 18 entries for its grand prize. Some submissions were ho-hum, but a handful showed that Friedman’s gamble had paid off. The scroll images that were once ambiguous blobs now had entire paragraphs of letters lighting up across them. The AI systems had brought the past to life. “It’s a situation that you practically never encounter as a classicist,” says Tobias Reinhardt, a professor of ancient philosophy and Latin literature at the University of Oxford. “You mostly look at texts that have been looked at by someone before. The idea that you are reading a text that was last unrolled on someone’s desk 1,900 years ago is unbelievable.”

A group of classicists reviewed all the entries and did, in fact, deem Farritor’s team the winners. They were able to stitch together more than a dozen columns of text with entire paragraphs all over their entry. Still translating, the scholars believe the text to be another work by Philodemus, one centered on the pleasures of music and food and their effects on the senses. “Peering at and beginning to transcribe the first reasonably legible scans of this brand-new ancient book was an extraordinarily emotional experience,” says Janko, one of the reviewers. While these passages aren’t particularly revelatory about ancient Rome, most classics scholars have their hopes for what might be next.

There’s a chance that the villa is tapped out—that there are no more libraries of thousands of scrolls waiting to be discovered—or that the rest have nothing mind-blowing to offer. Then again, there’s the chance they contain valuable lessons for the modern world.

That world, of course, includes Ercolano, the modern town of about 50,000 built on top of ancient Herculaneum. More than a few residents own property and buildings atop the villa site. “They would have to kick people out of Ercolano and destroy everything to uncover the ancient city,” says Federica Nicolardi, a papyrologist at the University of Naples Federico II.

Barring a mass relocation, Friedman is working to refine what he’s got. There’s plenty left to do; the first contest yielded about 5% of one scroll. A new set of contestants, he says, might be able to reach 85%. He also wants to fund the creation of more automated systems that can speed the processes of scanning and digital smoothing. He’s now one of the few living souls who’s roamed the villa tunnels, and he says he’s also contemplating buying scanners that can be placed right at the villa and used in parallel to scan tons of scrolls per day. “Even if there’s just one dialogue of Aristotle or a beautiful lost Homeric poem or a dispatch from a Roman general about this Jesus Christ guy who’s roaming around,” he says, “all you need is one of those for the whole thing to be more than worth it.”

[try-and-try-and-try-again]

11.10.24

A wild few days. I got vaccinated against flu and Covid on Wednesday and felt horrendous afterwards. I spent the majority of the next day lying on the floor pressed up against the radiator in my room (thank goodness it works now. It hasn’t since I moved in and it got fixed the day before).

Yesterday I had my pain clinic assessment and got a fibromyalgia diagnosis as I said in the last post. There were two unfamiliar women as opposed to the man I saw last time. They didn’t blame my pain and fatigue on my mental health issues and I’m very happy about this.

The next step is a referral to the pain service at my local hospital where I can apparently get help with things like pacing which I have really struggled to get to grips with on my own over the years. I have no idea how many months the waiting list is for this and neither did the clinicians.

I’m told hydrotherapy could also be helpful but it will cost me a lot or I’ll have to hope I can wangle an out of area referral and travel out of the county for it so this seems unlikely. When Covid hit all of the NHS hydrotherapy pools in my own county got closed permanently (which makes me a bit cross - it recently came out that the government made literally no plans regarding mental health services during lockdown which makes a lot of sense considering how chaotic treatment became, and they clearly neglected this kind of thing as well - it’s very much as if they decided only preventing the healthy working population who boost the economy from getting Covid and facing consequences that would hinder their ability to boost the economy further mattered - that seems to have been the Conservatives stance since beforehand anyway. On a different but slightly related note it turns out the reason I can’t do an undergraduate degree part time is because of how student finance works - I love the prioritisation of quickly gaining money over what could help people in all situations that is a feature of society).

I am already having somatic therapy privately which my parents are paying for, which helped get the pain more under control a few years ago before I got hospitalised early this year and it got dramatically worse again. I can only hope that and actually (hopefully) getting to grips with pacing will make me more functional again.

[valentinejaes]

Rules: answer + tag some people you want to get know better and/or catch up with!

Tagged by @yoohyeon hiii alex 🥰 ty for the tag 🫶🏻

1. Favorite Color: purple!! But I love lavender in particular 2. Last Song: espresso by sabrina carpenter. It was stuck in my head all day so I had to listen to it 3. Currently Reading: I just started The Guest List by Lucy Foley. idk if it'll be good but my sister gave it to me to read so why not 🤷‍♀️ I need to find a new nonfiction book to read too. 4. Currently Watching: Business Proposal for the first time ever (kim mingue call me back pls) & I need to watch the 2nd half of Bridgerton season 3 5. Currently Craving: chocolate cake (always chocolate cake), brownies, cookies... my period's coming can we tell? 6. Coffee or Tea: both! I grew up drinking iced sweet tea so it's one of my favorite things. Plus boba is amazing and a good hot tea on a dreary day or when you're not feeling well is always a good idea. But I also love coffee. It's one of my favorite sweet treats to get myself so much so that the only lockdown hobby I still do is making specialty coffee drinks for myself.

tagging some new(ish) mutuals (no pressure ofc <3): @qazastra @taeminnomuyeppeo @leetaehwan @atlantis-area @ashmp3 @wantbytaemin @jiubilee also @biwooyoung bc i always tag u 🤭💜+anyone who sees this and wants to do it!!

[allureofcrimemurdermystery]

Hiding in the event of a School Shooting

In this post I’m going to list what are the safest places to hide within a school if there isn’t a safe way outside or you are not safely in a classroom going through lockdown procedure. This is entirely hypothetical; you won't necessarily be involved but in the event of a school shooting it’s best to know how to stay safe just in case.

- A janitor's closet that can lock from the inside (preferably one that is not within the main parts of the school.)

- An elevator (make sure it’s closed and not moving.)

- Sub-rooms within room (storage rooms in music and art rooms most likely would be some of the safest.)

- Offices within the guidance/main office (navigating through the guidance/main office is times consuming, rarely have windows, and lock from the inside, making them fairly safe.)

- If you can, within a locker (an active shooter will most likely not look through all of the lockers in the school.)

- If there is a basement or area that only has pipes (it most likely won’t come into an active shooters mind to check, just avoid any electrical rooms/sections.)

- Small storage cabinets within an empty classroom (the shooter most likely would not enter an empty classroom to begin with and the cabinet would safely conceal you.)

- 1 person bathrooms (they typically have better locks on the doors of 1 person bathrooms and a shooter most likely wouldn’t think about them.)

** In the event that you can get outside GO OUTSIDE, and if there are no police outside already here are some helpful tips: **

- Hide behind cars (make sure you’re concealed from any windows.)

- Get away from the school grounds (nearby neighborhoods/businesses.)

- When running out/away from the school, run zigzags (this makes you a harder target.)

- Even if you don’t have a set destination, keep running until you feel as though there is absolutely no way you could be seen from the school.

!!!NOTIFY AUTHORITIES!!! Even if you think somebody already has, do it anyways. Also, if you saw/know the shooter give a description to the police (it could help them.)

Again, this is entirely hypothetical, but safety is key, and these are just some things that came to mind, feel free to add more.

I understand Mental Health is extremely important too, but should it ever get to there being an active shooter please read these, so you know what to do in that unfortunate situation.

Please be safe in schools.

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [27] chapter vi, part iv

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

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summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

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chapter summary : astrid gathers her allies, and draws the attention of her enemies. loki pays a heavy price for a victory.

recommended listening : what you waiting for?, gwen stefani

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tag list: @femmealec @mischief2sarawr

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[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

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54 weeks and 1 day out

“Sir. We have movement.”

Tony felt the lines of his spine and shoulder blades pull straight, almost reflexively, swivelling into motion at his holographic worktable like a well-oiled gear.

He was going on a self-imposed work diet- an attempt to rebalance, after living in his work for the past few months, building and breaking and remaking in an endless beta-testing phase, a Sisyphean attempt to patch every vulnerability he could imagine- but it had been pushed back, under the circumstances, and he had rationed out enough time for him to deal with the situation, before starting the full detox.

“Where are we, J?” He asked, with a casual upwards flick above the table.

The gesture summoned a hologram above the desk: an architectural scale model of the Tower, crafted in vitrified blue light.

“There is some unusual activity near the roof.”

The area in question turned orange on the three-dimensional map, zooming in for an exploded view of the topmost two-dozen floors.

Tony had remodelled the top of the Tower, after the Battle of New York. Damage had given him the excuse, and the team had provided the reason. Repaired and restructured, several stories added to its height, the broad, smooth curves and open layout modelled after his cliffside home in Malibu were scrapped, the exterior cleaner and sharper- streamlined, from the slanted crown of its roof, through the convex glass-faced layers of the penthouse floors, to the landing pad extending out into the open air.

Locals had taken to calling it Avengers Tower. None of the roster aside from Tony had taken up residence yet, but they all agreed that it was a good base, and Tony kept the personal suites ready for whenever they might need to drop in.

The luminescent A badge shimmered on the side of the building, level with the landing pad. Just below it- within the three floors dedicated to Tony’s private laboratories, workshops, storage, and fabrication facilities- a red diamond marked his current location.

“Surveillance feeds and motion sensor detectors are offline,” JARVIS announced, highlighting the locations in a chain, “as are the door sensors.”

Tony visually tracked the path that it created.

It led from the roof access, into the emergency stairwell, before terminating at the door into Thor’s suite: no more and no less than would be needed to gain access to the building.

It was more than twenty floors above him- a distance that would take several minutes to traverse. He had time.

“You locked out, buddy?” Tony asked quietly, summoning his touch keyboard with a sweep of his palm. “Or are they trying to be subtle?”

“Neither, sir. As with the first occurrence, this appears to be a mechanical failure, not a cyber-attack.”

His gaze narrowed briefly, jaw moving.

Somehow, that was both more and less plausible than JARVIS being hacked.

“Shall I prepare to go into lockdown protocol, sir?” JARVIS proposed. “It should be possible to isolate intruders to one of the penthouse floors, once they are inside.”

Tony contemplated the offer for only a heartbeat.

“No. Clear the way down for her, J,” he decided breezily. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

There was a brief, audibly judgemental pause in the response time.

“As you wish, sir.” Tony could hear the mild disapproval and concern behind his AI’s cool, crisp tones. “Shall I at least stand by with security protocols?”

“Doubt we’ll be needing them, but- feels like this one’s got a few fireworks up her sleeve.” He conceded blithely, pre-empting the reproach about putting himself at unjustifiable risk. “Alright. Safety off, but finger off the trigger.”

Tony turned in his chair, scanning the room. The workshop was cluttered with a rich confusion of half-finished projects, both metal and digital, strewn across screens and surfaces between discarded coffee cups and various tools.

“And clear the decks, J. Window Dressing Protocol.”

At the command, the screens cleared.

Detailed blueprints and test data were replaced with generic schematics and randomised code, like cellophane pasted on a device fresh out of the box. They reflected in the wall of glass that faced the length of the room- diluted against the dark hallway beyond.

With a gentle swipe, Tony dismissed the render of the Tower.

Rising to his feet, he slid the rolling chair aside, summoned a program and began typing, looking to all the world like the very image of productivity and genius at work.

He wasn’t kept waiting for long.

A gentle rap of knuckles sounded on the reinforced, shatter-proof glass.

Tony’s head snapped up.

The girl whose real name definitely wasn’t Alethia waited just outside, painted like day in the light spilling from the workshop.

She was dressed for the winter night, a New York romance in a soft black sweater and jeans the colour of dried roses, champagne hair pinned in in a braided coil, emphasising a pretty set of cheekbones and long eyelashes. Backs of her knuckles still raised to the glass, snow-dusted and pleasantly windswept, she tipped chin down slightly in greeting.

She looked better, Tony observed. Her skin was clearer, her eyes brighter, expression smoother- less tension-soured, less angry, and more like the person that she had sounded like, aboard the Helicarrier.

Without looking, he tapped a command into the control panel.

The electronic lock switched open with a heavy snap.

Alethia turned the handle, stepping inside, flawless and measured.

“Dr Stark.”

There was a low thrum in her voice, as though cautiously pleased to see him.

“Not-agent.”

Tony’s reply was blandly jovial. Shunting the lines of code aside, he stepped away from the workbench, one hand tucked into his pocket. He had remained outfitted in dark sweats and a gym shirt, standard gear for the workshop, but his posture was that of when he was in a three-piece suit and a boardroom- eyes fixed on her face, chin tilted up slightly, sizing her up with an air of casual challenge.

To her credit, Alethia remained unaffectedly at ease.

It had reminded him a little of Pepper- but not by much.

Virginia Potts was like a ceramic knife. There was a deliberate poise to her, born of a consciousness of her disadvantages in the industry, a refusal to be anything less than a worthy player of the game; she was everything prim and correct and refusing to be intimidated, the result of thousands of observations and lessons learned and choices made, constructed into a statuesque, pleasantly intimidating facade.

Alethia reminded him far more of someone else.

Tony had realised it when she was leaning over the Tesseract transport device, her voice focused and softly mirthful.

Relax. I have steady hands.

For a moment, he had been hurled back in time. He had tasted metal, and dust, lung tissue still burning from the water with each breath, the heat of the forge at his back and the dim cold of the caves at his front, the weight of a car battery slung over his shoulder, and a pair of lean hands- Yinsen, sure and calm and steady, mild-mannered yet ruthlessly insightful, guarded and tired and yet earnest- pouring molten palladium into its cast.

Relax, he had chided Tony gently, tilting the long handles of the tongs, inclining the lip of the crucible over the mould. I have steady hands. Why do you think you are alive, ah?

After removing it from his chest for the second time, Tony had quietly returned the first miniaturised arc reactor to the display mount that Pepper had commissioned, sealing it back in glass.

It was still powered by that delicate ring of palladium, poured by steady hands under a mountain in Afghanistan.

With a steady sweep of her lashes, Alethia looked past Tony’s shoulder, at the screen display where he had been typing.

Her head tilted.

“Was there any particular reason that you were translating the lyrics of ABBA’s Dancing Queen into base64?”

Huh. Well.

Tony had more or less expected that she would see straight through the chains of randomised letters and numbers, like an awl punching through leather, but- the casual quickness was a little disorientating. It was like expecting a card trick, and getting shoved into a swimming pool instead.

“Everybody needs a hobby,” he said, bald-faced and shameless.

“Mm.” Hazel eyes flicked to his, warm as vanilla and laughter. “I’ve heard worse.”

They trailed into silence.

“Ran a trace, on the phone number you left,” Tony admitted boldly. “Before I called.”

Alethia smiled slightly.

“Ah. Were you disappointed?”

“I think I’d be disappointed if it was that easy.” Tony decided, circling the desks, feigning distraction. Alethia was missing a coat that would make sense for the cold. Her nails were trimmed neat, without polish. The only traces of makeup were a swipe of soft black kohl at the corners of her eyes and the sheen of lip balm. Practical, yet impractical. “Complete no sell, though. Impressive. That SHIELD tech?”

The corner of her mouth pulled up further.

“No.”

“You still with them?”

“If I ever was, I’m not now.”

“So you’re a free agent?”

“Free not-agent.”

“How long?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“I mean, I’d call it due diligence, but I’ve got a pair of cuffs somewhere, if it’d make you more comfortable.”

Alethia’s smile bloomed into a brilliant grin.

“Didn’t think you’d be into that, Dr Stark.”

She sobered slightly, clear as glass.

“Ask me what you want to know. I wouldn’t have left a way for you to contact me, if I wasn’t willing to talk.”

Tony held her gaze for a long moment.

He tapped at the keypad.

Several pages opened across the screens.

Pages of instructions, formulas, tables, calculations, and skeletal molecular structures illuminated the digital glass.

Alethia kept her gaze on Tony.

“What is this?” Tony asked, quiet and direct.

She breathed a slow exhale, hip cocking.

“The formulas, chemical synthesis processes, and medical procedures for stabilising the biological effects of the experimental serum known as Extremis,” she announced clinically, “when introduced to the human body intravenously, subcutaneously, or intramuscularly.” Alethia paused, pointedly. “I did include an abstract.”

“And you broke into my building to leave it here.”

“I apologise for the necessity.” Alethia replied evenly. “It was safer, than a courier.”

“You couldn’t think of another way?”

She arched an eyebrow.

“So- a package, delivered to this building, or a file sent to the general inquires inbox for Stark Industries, addressed directly to you, from an unknown sender- wouldn’t have been lost in the system?”

Despite the lingering irritation, he could admit that she had a point.

And at least she hadn’t tried to hack JARVIS, or threatened to taser him, or ripped the arc reactor out of his chest, or thrown him through a window.

All in all, this break-in was probably in his top three.

Tony flicked his hands into a shrug, keeping his expression blank and blithe.

“Alright. Let’s say I buy that.” He did buy it, but she didn’t need to know that yet. “You wanna tell me what this really is?”

He saw the subtle shift in her eyes, becoming a little shrewder, a touch sharper- and a little pleased.

She pulled up one shoulder.

“A gift? Or a bribe, perhaps. Gratitude. Diplomacy. A resumé.”

“What, you’re in the market for a job?”

The quip was as pithy as he intended, but in the split second that followed- huh.

Actually.

That wasn’t a terrible idea.

Tony acknowledged that he needed to step back from Iron Man- at least until he could reorganise his head and redraw the lines so that it wasn’t the all-consuming furnace of fear and duty and penance and freedom-safety that it had become- but the work wouldn’t wait. The planet was on a deadline, and Tony had more resources than most to pull the necessary defences together. Having good people on board, who could keep his projects ticking over while he reorientated, was essential.

And Alethia knew. She had recognised the monsters lurking in the dark between the stars, and had looked for someone to warn when she decided that Fury couldn’t be trusted to listen.

And then there was the truth in all things, and cannot lie aspect. That was a hell of an ace up Earth’s collective sleeve- if, if, if-

“I don’t need a job, Dr Stark. What I need is an ally.” Alethia spoke as clear and calm as daybreak upon the mountains. “We both do. As many as we can get.”

Tony swallowed, carefully.

He turned his head to look at the screens, grappling down the swoop of intermingled terror and relief.

“So this is your pitch.”

“I was working on other areas, but- I saw the news,” Alethia said mildly. “The bombings. Malibu.”

She hesitated.

“I was worried.”

Tony flicked a slightly surprised glance back at her.

Alethia’s gaze was on the screens, inscrutable.

There was a note of quiet sincerity in her voice that rattled something within him, like marbles in a jar.

“Well.” Tony began, turning back towards the illuminated text. “I’ve come back from the dead before.”

“Even so.” She demurred. “You were- you were kind to me. I didn’t forget that. So I was glad to find that you were alright. Then I found out about AIM, and Extremis, and I- thought you could use the assistance.”

Tony didn’t know what to say.

He still couldn’t decide, even after a moment to reboot.

Instead, he deflected.

“I knew you weren’t an engineer.”

“Hm?”

Tony flicked a practiced, flippant gesture at the screens- a quick upturn of his palm, fingers loosely curled- turning away.

“Back then. The instructions you provided for the Tesseract device- I mean, we talked about it at the time. Hot garbage, right? Intentional hot garbage, but still. There was a solid working understanding of the physics and the mechanics, but it wasn’t written by someone au fait with the field. There are things that you only learn if you’ve studied it, read the books, learned how to speak the language. It’s all in the common practice- the jargon, the shorthand. That was missing, from your papers. There were a few pieces, but not enough. You’re not an engineer.”

Tony turned to face her, expression a flat, inscrutable mask.

“You are a doctor, though.”

Alethia didn’t flinch.

He would expect nothing less, from someone who had kept secrets from Nicholas Fury and was still walking around, doing as she pleased.

“This,” Tony raised a finger to his shoulder-line, indicating the screens behind him. “Is perfect. Flawless. You could send this for peer review and get it published in The Lancet.”

A chink appeared in Alethia’s expression- something that she had allowed to break through, intense as sunlight striking on a shard of glass.

Pride.

It was earned. As far as Tony could tell, she had whipped up the antiserum formula within a matter of days; any sane research institute or private company on the planet, including the medical subsidiaries of Stark Industries, would be putting a bounty on her corporate headhunt if they knew.

Blasé as he could afford to be with money, however, Tony rarely made a purchase without knowing the price.

“So. What are you?” He paced back towards her, gathering a slow momentum like the wind of a crank, closing in. “Biochem? Cellular biology? Genetics? What’s your speciality?”

Alethia smiled.

“Neurosurgery.”

Tony’s brow twitched at the admission, taken aback.

He wasn’t actually expecting a straight answer. He wasn’t expecting that answer.

And he wasn’t expecting its wistfulness.

“You’re a brain surgeon?”

She let out a short laugh.

“I should probably introduce myself.” An incandescent, media-ready smile lit up her features, relaxed and confident. “Dr Astrid North, MD.”

Tony stilled.

That was her name, he could tell. Not an alias.

Tony quickly calculated the risk, that she was taking.

“Date of birth recorded as the twenty-ninth of February, 1988,” she continued, as though this time she was actually reciting and submitting her résumé for consideration. “Graduated from Columbia in the class of ’03, summa cum laude, completed my neurosurgical residency in 2010. I also worked under the surnames Stephenson and Stephensdottir- spelt like the doctorate, not like the super-soldier. There should be records of me available here in New York, as well as the UK, Italy, Switzerland, Sweden, Singapore, and Brazil.”

Tony could feel the staccato of his heart, stuttering behind the arc reactor, a thrum of anticipation.

“Hm. SHIELD know any of this?”

Alethia’s- Astrid’s- lip curled with a hint of contempt.

“No.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

She lifted her shoulder. “I thought you’d want an insurance policy.”

“And what have I done to earn that?”

“You listened.”

“I passed the test,” Tony inferred. “That’s why you’re here?”

“I’m here because I would like to trust you,” Astrid said coolly, “and because I think there’s a more than fair probability that I can. And- because I would like you to trust me. Even if only enough to work together.”

Tony observed her for a few dragging seconds.

“What’s your endgame?” He challenged. “You told me back then that you’re not an altruist.”

“Oh, I’m not.”

“Then why? What’s in it for you?”

Her brow tensed slightly.

“Enlightened self-interest? Or, is I don’t want the planet I currently live on to be destroyed insufficient for you?”

“Eh, plenty of people don’t find it compelling. Look at climate change.”

Astrid’s lips parted to reply- before she grimaced, glancing aside in admission.

“Alright, fair point.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But maybe I’m just more circumspect.”

“Or you have another reason.”

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling with a slow blink.

“You are being very obstinate about this.”

“You know, I don’t actually care, what your actual reason is,” Tony blurted out, sharp and caustic as battery acid, a sudden flare of anger and impatience shoving him forwards, “because you’re right. We need allies. Including each other. So I’m willing to work with your reason why. But only if I know what it is.”

The moment that Tony stopped speaking, he became aware of how Astrid was looking at him.

Tony felt like he was being taken apart, disassembled, the cover plate pulled off to check the hardware.

Truth in all things.

She hummed, soft in the back of her throat. It was the kind that he could feel in his sternum, even with most of it carved away for the arc reactor.

“Alright,” she said softly. “Fair’s fair.”

She straightened, looking away.

“There is- someone.” She said carefully. “Someone that I love.”

Tony blinked.

It was like the twist of a kaleidoscope, patterns reforming, in four simple words.

“And the one responsible for- that-” Astrid snapped a finger heavenwards, her entire being smouldering with a leashed, soul-deep hatred, “took them, at their most vulnerable. Captured them. Tortured them. For months. Years. Twisted their memories, tainted their emotions, and manipulated their pain until they no longer knew where they ended, and the sceptre began. They barely kept enough of themselves to ruin it all, and break free of the control.”

Tony felt a muscle in his bicep and jaw twitch, flicking an appraising, calculating look across her.

Interesting.

“The one that I love will be hunted as a traitor. Or, as a failure- I don’t think it matters, and I don’t care. It all has the same end. What matters is that the one I love will never be safe, until and unless that is no longer a threat.”

Astrid dropped her hand, meeting his eyes addressing him with a tone of complete, terrifying certainty.

“I have decided that it is not going to be a threat.”

The floor of Tony’s stomach dropped out, the room seeming to tilt.

He was suddenly struck with a strange thought- like some survival instinct coded into his evolutionary ancestry, tapping at his nerve endings, lingering like a chill in the vertebrae of his neck. It was the feeling that he was looking at something ancient, and angered- half-mad and unhinged and doing an admirable job of containing itself to its human skin.

He realised, in a split second, that Astrid was probably something not entirely human.

And she was baring her teeth at whatever was threatening to swallow Earth whole.

Fuck it. He could work with this.

“All of the sake of love?” Tony asked.

He took pride in the fact that his cadence was even-keeled, despite the stagger of his pulse.

A humourless, self-deprecating smile wrung through her features.

“You can laugh,” Astrid told him, rueful and without rancour. “I know how I must sound.”

Tony forced himself to shrug, nonchalantly. “I’ve heard worse.”

And he had. Tony had been worse. He had cut deals with worse, because he was a realist, and anyone pursuing utopia had to be willing to drag themselves through purgatory first.

After a long moment, Tony inhaled sharply, pulling his shoulders back.

“Okay,” he said powerfully. “If this is a bluff? I’m calling it. Cards on the table.”

A spark ignited behind Astrid’s eyes, like a struck match.

“Pepper’s been injected with Extremis,” he continued brusquely, “I need to get her stable, along with any other test subjects that AIM decided to turn into literal walking time bombs. That’s why you gave me these papers, right? You thought I could use it, and I can. So let’s get to it. You in?”

Astrid looked startled- before her entire demeanour snapped into a honed, clinical focus.

“Wh- are you monitoring cortisol levels? Internal temperature, heartrate, WBC-?”

“Per doctor’s orders.” Tony flicked his head towards the reams of detailed medical instructions, listed out on the glass. “Followed your procedures to the letter. We’re tracking down anyone else who might have taken part in clinical trials, but it looks like there were a limited number, at least.”

Astrid tugged up her sleeves with an efficient pinch of fabric, pulling the soft knit clear of her wrists and forearms. “How many potential patients?”

“Caps out at a dozen, maybe.”

“The antiserum? You’ve started synthesising it?”

“As we speak, lab’s running on auto.”

“How much?”

“About two hundred and fifty milligrams, in the first batch.”

“Not enough. Triple it. And quintuple it for the others, per patient. I don’t want to be caught out with less than we need. Have you started on the round of pre-antiserum IV fluids?”

“About three hours ago.”

“And no adverse effects, contraindications?”

“Nada. Smooth sailing, all in line with where you said we should be by now.”

“Good, but keep Miss Potts closely monitored. And we’ll still need to test the antiserum on a live tissue sample, if possible.”

“I’ll get on it.”

Tony swiped two fingers down through the air, dismissing the pages on the screens, the room dimming slightly as they slid away.

“If this works,” he said, his enunciation crisp, “we can talk.” In one fluid motion, Tony plucked a StarkPad from amongst the chaos of the workbenches, flipping it in his grip to hold it, outstretched, within her reach. “Sound good, doctor?”

Astrid smiled, light and wild, and Tony felt his decision settle in his chest with a feeling of rightness.

This could work.

She took the tablet.

“Lead the way, doctor.”

-

Astrid made an addition to her list.

Flour.

-

50 weeks and 3 days out

Brunnhilde would be the first to admit that she was not made for subterfuge.

She was a woman of brash, blunt action, more inclined to punch her way straight through her problems that to deconstruct them. As such, her vocation suited her. The Valkyrie were the vanguard, the cavalry, the elite corps, revered shieldmaidens who cleared the field with a swift, graceful brutality that was immortalised in legend and song and carving.

They had been thralls, once. Slaves.

Most of Asgard had forgotten that.

As war raged across the Nine, they had been appropriated by the throne- a form of tax levy, on the wealthy of Asgard- and dispatched to the battlefield in the wake of Asgard’s armies, to collect corpses from the slurry. Choosers of the slain, the golden-plated Einherjar snickered into their cups, leering over the rims.

Then there was a shortage of disposable warm bodies. It had seen weapons pressed into their hands, shoved to the front lines to fill out the ranks.

Against all expectation, the Valkyrie had fought. The fought, and lived, and bought victory to Asgard.

In recognition of their deeds, Bor had purchased their freedom. The Valkyrie became the pride of Asgard, a symbol of its might, arrayed in battle armour of bright, sun-catching pearl-white and star-silver.

Their origins were probably why the Valkyrie could be found working, even in peacetime- conducting funerary rites, serving at great state occasions, maintaining Folkvang- while the Einherjar regressed into nothing more than decorative doorstops scattered throughout Gladsheim.

Brunnhilde had once remarked as such to Loki. Months later, he had presented her with a gilded doorstop for her nameday, crafted into the shape of an Einherjar in full regalia.

It had sent Brunnhilde into a fit of delighted, undignified cackles.

I’m calling him Sigurd, she declared with a feral grin.

Ah, he’s not going to last a week, Loki had commented, clicking his tongue with a convincing veneer of faux-pity.

Even now, few if any of Brunnhilde’s sisters were of noble blood or wealthy backgrounds. Most of them came from labouring families, apprenticed in a trade before they turned old enough to apply to the corps, and they bought their skills to Folkvang. The Valkyrie’s halls, sheltered in a chilled, fertile basin in the mountains, was almost entirely self-sufficient thanks to their collective knowledge. They raised fields of wheat and flax, milled their own flour and spun their own linen, wove and baked and built, felled timber and hunted and fished, tanned leather and cured meat, cut stone and dug wells, even kept bees and pressed oil and fermented wine and made candles.

And then there was the lace.

A few girls who knew how to weave had taken it up, transforming thread into pretty swatches of aerated cloth. They had begun teaching the craft to a few others, when they showed interest. Then the pastime became an additional source of income, to supplement the stipend provided by the crown.

And within a few centuries, Valkyrie lace was considered amongst the most exquisite craftsmanship in all the Nine. A single spool of inch-wide trim commanded a small fortune. When a Valkyrie was wed, it was customary for her sisters to spend the year and a day between engagement and marriage- or longer, if they saw the union coming- making as many yards of lace as they could manage, as her dowry.

Brunnhilde loved her sisters, admired their work, and hated lacemaking with a virulence that she usually reserved for bilgesnipe and strutting lordlings who thought that bedding a Valkyrie was a notch in their gilded belt.

Fortunately, she also had absolutely no talent for it. The others had quickly banished her from their tatting pillows and needles and bobbins, gently shoving her off towards work that actually made sense to her.

And Brunnhilde was content to have nothing to do with it. She honestly couldn’t understand what the others envisioned in the countless threads, or why crossing one here or knotting another there would somehow create a magnificently intricate motif several thousand more motions later, even if she was capable of appreciating the result.

In that sense, subterfuge reminded her of lacework.

She couldn’t see all of the threads, where they were leading, or how they locked together into a single bolt of woven fibre and air- but Loki so clearly knew exactly how each and every loop and twist and knot would build outwards, and took quiet satisfaction in seeing each one tighten into place, like a miniature noose.

There was an aching patience to it, each miniscule snag changing the fall of the delicate mesh, and Brunnhilde was often caught by the impulse to just hack her way through it.

She didn’t.

Instead, she did exactly as he asked.

Asgard underestimates him, a memory whispered- that of a warm voice, accompanied by a smile that darkened the eyes above it into amber. Or thinks it sees him, or thinks it knows what it’s looking at. A trick of the light. A shadow on glass. It is a mistake, you know.

The darkened eyes had begun to glow, instead, when they saw that Brunnhilde was paying attention.

I think he might be the most real person that I have ever met.

“I was surprised,” Loki admitted, on a low, distracted hum, “that you didn’t ask.”

The dungeons were quiet, at least in the wing where Loki was being held. It felt like an archive, a place for lost and forgotten things to be kept, shelved and stored out of sight until they were needed- the air settled as silt on the bottom of a riverbed, barely stirring with the sparse rounds of the guards.

Brunnhilde had counted eleven weaknesses that she could exploit, if it came to it.

She would have counted three dozen more in a fraction of the time.

She felt her heart clench strangely. It was the feeling of old scar tissue, untouched for so long, flexing and moving once more.

She and Loki were seated at the front of his cell, arranged parallel against the golden barrier on either side. Swathed in worn, nondescript suedes, Brunnhilde slouched on the stone steps, bare shoulder shoved against the forcefield; the air felt thicker the closer she came to the curtain of spellwork, like magnetic resistance, but she found herself leaning her weight into it, defiant and testing, like pressing her thumb down on a new bruise.

On the other side, Loki was sorting through several sheaves of handwritten notes, stacks surrounding him like panes in a half-rose window. His black hair was braided back at his crown, dressed in soft leathers and deep green linens and lightweight boots, finely made with immaculate quality, but far simpler than would be expected of an Asgardian prince- at least outside of the privacy of the residential wings of the palace.

Brunnhilde knew that he could have dressed himself in illusions, if he wished.

The choice not to was- interesting. In a way that she refused to think about.

There were a lot of things she refused to think about, with regards to Loki.

Not when it made her feel all those mollusc-soft sentiments that she had decided to kill years ago, for her own survival, after the gold plating of Asgard had begun to flake in her eyes.

In that, at least, she knew they were both in good company.

“I asked about this,” Brunnhilde countered his comment, tapping a nail against the arm ring that sat flush against the curve of her bicep. It was a deceptively simple band of brass, seeming to blend in against her, unremarkable regardless of lighting. Between it, and Loki’s magic, they were shielded from the Gatekeeper’s watch- Loki as a glaring lacuna in the script, a blank space, and Brunnhilde as though from behind a fine, misting rain, the specifics blurred out of focus.

Loki rolled his eyes, in that prissy, superior manner that left Brunnhilde more amused than irritated, these days.

“Yes, about whether it would turn your skin orange or set you spitting toads, of all things.”

“It was a valid concern, knowing you.”

“Hm.” There was a slight upturn at the corner of Loki’s mouth- the closest thing to agreement that she would probably wrest out of him.

Brunnhilde slipped loose a smirk.

“I didn’t bother asking,” she admitted, in a crisp-consonant drawl, “because I knew that I probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. It would be like asking to read a contract before I sign, when I don’t know the language it’s written in.”

Loki’s eyes sliced up from the papers, without lifting his head, fixing her with a serpentine gaze.

“You do yourself a disservice, Brunn.”

Brunnhilde paused, a little surprised by his quiet vehemence.

She shrugged it away.

“This is just not something I’m suited for. Politics and subterfuge and spywork. Moving the pieces by moving entirely different ones, lightyears away. It’s like my sisters, and their lacework,” she admitted blithely. “I understand the theory. But even if you had told me where this was going, I wouldn’t know enough to tell if you were lying.”

But.

Brunnhilde wasn’t entirely ignorant to Loki’s plans. She had made certain of it.

She had heard the gossip, on dozens of planets across the Nine. The arm ring not only shielded her from Heimdall’s sight, but also from the perils of using the secret passageways that were specked across Asgard- allowing her to move freely between worlds, at Loki’s direction.

Steadily, disparate pieces and seemingly unconnected incidents were coalescing, into a clear picture.

Muspelheim had struck an unexpected trade deal with Ria. When the revival of the disused trade route had attracted Marauders and Ravagers, a new defence coalition had formed, stationed at crucial waypoints to prevent piracy and smuggling.

The Crown Prince of Vanaheim had headed a diplomatic envoy to Alfheim. By the time he had arrived, Niflheim’s queen just so happened to be also be visiting her fellow monarch. The triumvirate meeting occurred without a single Asgardian dignitary present.

A few weeks later, the realm of the light elves had also hosted several representatives of dwarven guilds.

The Nova-Kree War was turning cold. The Nine had become neutral ground. The Nova Corps had offered aid to those on the outskirts and most affected by raids, and had sent engineers to retrofit their older, short-haul vessels with swifter engines and stronger defences. The Kree were in tentative talks with Nidarvellir, to have the dwarves invest in maintaining local jump points, in exchange for Kree arms to protect their merchant fleets.

The realms were moving, like the interlocking turn of dials and gears. And for the first time in millennia, Asgard was excluded from its workings.

And it was Loki’s doing.

At his instruction, Brunnhilde had bribed and baited Ravagers to harass Nidarvellir trade routes. She had placed bets at various ports, on the likelihood of a Kree civil war. She had sold information on Knowhere, changed figures on shipping manifestos, stirred up bar fights and complained about the export tax on goods out of Ria, destroyed shipments and switched documents and delayed correspondence, paid off and blackmailed and persuaded civil servants and stewards and aides into suggesting or omitting a minor detail from a report, or handing a project to a different department.

Brunnhilde was the stage hand in a great, orchestrated play. The Nine were being gently herded into a strengthening current- one that was looking outwards, into a galaxy where the balance of power was shifting.

It was a coup.

And Loki hadn’t even left his cell.

Brunnhilde refused to be impressed.

After a moment, she realised that Loki was looking at her with a glinting amusement.

It wasn’t the kind that was intended to mock, but rather the prelude to bringing her in on the joke.

“Of course you can’t see where this is going, Brunn,” he said softly. “You’re the needle.”

A memory clicked into place, flickering in like guttering lamplight.

There was a bolster pillow in her lap, a lace pad template pinned atop it, embroidery needle gripped uncertain and rigid between her forefinger and thumb. The chatter and bickering and teasing of her sisters was a cloud of ambient sound that seemed to glow like nimbus, in the apple-golden autumn afternoon.

A warm shoulder brushed near her own.

Gently, Brunn! A voice laughed. Treat your needle with respect. Relax your hand. The needle can feel where it needs to go- you’re just guiding it.

This is a terrible idea, Brunnhilde had muttered. We all remember what happened when Svanhit tried to teach me.

Stay away from my bobbins, Brunn! Came a sharp call from across the hall, to a few snickers. Olrun, Hervor, keep her away!

Brunnhilde had made to wave a vulgar gesture at her, and almost stabbed herself with the needle.

Needlepoint lace is more straightforward, a clear voice interjected. Brunnhilde had looked over to her- the glint of her needle moving in brisk freehand stitches, looping and tightening, all deft skill and focus, one moving part, one thread. You don’t have to keep track of seventy different bobbins, and the order you need to cross or twist them in.

Your prince prefers bobbin lace, doesn’t he? Brunnhilde asked, smirkingly.

Brunnhilde received a gentle, reproachful elbow to the ribs.

A flush, through golden skin, head dipping and pearl-white hair slipping forwards.

Prince Loki has a mind for it, she replied, deliberately and damningly neutral. The dance of it, the complexity- it suits him.

Well, what do you prefer?

She had paused, head cocked.

I like both, I suppose, she hedged. Bobbin lace is essentially weaving- looping the strands together, pulling them into place against each other. It tends to be- lighter, more of a fabric with motifs created inside of it. Layers of opacity. Needle lace is often studier. Like- scaffolding. The pattern is all that there is. And the needle has to work back and back and back to bring it into existence, to make sure it holds in place, knotting back where it has already been.

Her eyes sharpened.

No- I think I prefer bobbin lace. Needle lace is- putting a great deal of trust on just one thing.

Brunnhilde blinked back into the present.

Oh.

Loki had learned some lacemaking. He would have likely received that same explanation, heard the same comparison.

After a moment, she scowled, looking away.

“I still hate lacemaking.”

Loki laughed.

-

Worlds away, Astrid made a cautious addition to her list, framed in brackets.

(Lace).

-

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